


The Snake & His Panther

by Tricki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Magic, Snarky potions masters falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 09:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricki/pseuds/Tricki
Summary: Severus Snape has never expected to love anyone other than Lily Evans.  He lives in patient acceptance of this fact until he finds himself debating gillyweed and morning dew in Mulpepper’s Apothecary.  HecatexSeverus





	1. The Beguiling Nature of Gillyweed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, Happy 2019! Bear with me on this one. It's close to my heart and I'm surprisingly nervous about posting it. Basically I love Hecate and Severus and my heart beats for their beautiful, snarky, student-torturing, doomed love. And this is how it came out.  
> I've tried to make it as canon and timeline compliant as possible. There will be twelve chapters, I'm planning to post one a week after these two. Hopefully someone other than me sticks with it 'til the end. 
> 
> Our story begins around 1987/88 and goes from there.

* * *

 

 

Severus Snape has loved Lily Evans since the first time she spoke to him.  Severus Snape has always known he will always love Lily Evans.  Severus Snape has never expected to love anyone other than Lily Evans. 

He lives in patient acceptance of this fact until the day Severus stumbles upon a woman he feels completely in place with.  At ease.  Correct.  This is not a sensation Severus has experienced in his adult life.  But in she walks: Hecate Hardbroom, the unyielding, exacting Deputy Headmistress of Cackle’s Academy.  A fellow potions master.  A like-minded soul.

He spies her for the first time in Mulpepper’s Apothecary, long and elegant in a well-tailored black robe that flashes green in the light, her waist cinched with a wide leather belt, her long black hair plaited and wound into a neat bun. 

His dark eyes linger upon her quite of their own accord, quite against his better judgement.  The attractiveness or otherwise of the fairer sex long ago ceased registering with Severus on a daily basis.  But on this day it does register, and his gaze sticks on her like a fly in honey wine.

She is idly fingering a talisman around her neck, tapping long, sharp black fingernails against the intricate gold disk with one hand and tracing the label on a bottle of something-or-other with the other.  No doubt checking the purity of the ingredients, or their origin.  Glancing down, she presses a button, revealing the talisman at her neck as a watch.  Seemingly satisfied with the time, the witch returns to her musing, her attention fully absorbed with whatever decision she has at hand. 

Her red lips quirk with displeasure as she scans the ingredients, and something about the action makes Severus’ own twitch upwards.  A smile is such a rare thing to elicit from Severus Snape, even he takes a moment to note the strangeness of the response.  It spurs him to another action he wouldn’t usually take.  He approaches her. 

“I find the Spanish harvested gillyweed generally superior to that harvested in New Zealand,” is Severus’ undeniably smooth opening line.

“Is that so?”  She replies, turning to him briefly and running dark chocolate eyes over him with an arched eyebrow.  The look she gives him is almost entirely dismissive, precisely the one Severus himself would have used on anyone who deigned to give him advice on ingredients.  “And on what basis do you assume yourself to be,” she runs her eyes up and down him disdainfully, “qualified to give such advice?” 

“I am potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”  He turns to face her in full, bows slightly before extending his hand.  “Professor Severus Snape.”

The witch looks at his hand dubiously, as if she’s worried it’s unclean, before taking it delicately.  “I would say I’m charmed, but being condescended about my own field of expertise by one of my contemporaries is a less than appealing way to spend an afternoon.” 

He affects a tone of idle intrigue rather than condescension, as is his instinct. “In what sense are we contemporaries, madam?”  

“I should think being Deputy Head of Cackle’s Academy is sufficient for you to consider me a contemporary, _Professor_?”  Severus flounders - a sensation to which he is not accustomed.  Severus has underestimated her, he admits that freely now.  He’d not assumed she was equally qualified as him.  He’d assumed he was clearly in the position of authority.  Severus makes a silent commitment not to underestimate her again, if only out of concern for his safety.  She is looking at him as if she may turn him into a mollusc.  He quite respects the response from her. 

Gathering himself, Severus says “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Hardbroom.”  It is only now he notes he has not released her hand, which he promptly does.  And then regrets.  

“I myself favour Californian gillyweed, however I was selecting morning dew.”  She remarks, and plucks two phials of undiluted morning dew from a shelf just beside his shoulder.  She almost brushes his cloak on her way past. 

Her lips curl into a smile now, and the expression is nothing but a challenge.  “Are there any other useful facts you believe I should know about your preferred countries of origin for various ingredients?” 

“I apologise for my presumption, Miss Hardbroom.” 

“Hecate, please.”  The words are out of her mouth before she’s made a conscious decision to release them.  In normal circumstances, she would hold onto the formality, particularly after his patronising little display.

“Hecate, then.  Might I buy you a drink?  An apology, of sorts.” 

She sweeps her eyes over him once more, before cocking her head slightly and nodding her concession.  A single movement.  The economy of it endears him.  He is not a man who generally finds things endearing. 

With a wafture of her hand, Hecate sends a stack of galleons onto the counter. 

“Thank you as always, Mr Mulpepper.”  Hecate calls to the wizened gentleman napping behind the counter. 

“Always a pleasure for you, HB.”  He responds, after shaking himself from his nap. 

She follows Severus out and, only when half way to the Leaky Cauldron, queries idly, “Was there something you needed from Mr Mulpepper?”  Severus kicks himself internally.  He needs a new supply of griffin claws.  Badly.  He shall have to return tomorrow, or change the week's lesson plan.  He will not admit that to her for a year. 

The Leaky Cauldron would not have been Severus’ first choice to take the only woman who has turned his head in decades, but Diagon Alley has fewer options to for such dalliances than Hogsmeade, so he is left with little choice.

They sit with a firewhiskey each, sparring lightly over potion methods.  He is showing off.  He hasn't felt the need to parade his skills since he was a student.  She doesn't succumb to it, though.  Hecate Hardbroom has never given much thought to… well, anything beyond her career for the most part.  She is exacting and unforgiving, and in normal circumstances would in no way entertain the idea of spending time with someone who has casually dismissed her in the way Severus Snape did this afternoon.  But something in her is instinctively drawn to him.  She finds herself enjoying his company, falling into an easy repartee with the wizard in a way she doesn’t often with strangers.  Hecate does not normally let her guard down to other people, but within twenty minutes, she finds herself smiling softly at his wry remarks.  She gives him no room for error, and he adores her for it almost instantly - although he will of course not admit that to himself for some time.  And there, in a grimy pub with questionable culinary options, for the first time in a very, very long time, Severus Snape feels like he could love someone other than Lily Evans.  Luckily for Severus, today is also the first time in an exceedingly long time that Hecate Hardbroom gives a moment of consideration to what her life might look like with another person in it.   


	2. The Intoxicating Properties of Poisonous Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Severus wakes with the weight of Hecate Hardbroom’s body on his chest he is, more than anything else, disorientated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems I lied to you about two things in the last chapter's notes. I promised you two chapters last week, and a total of twelve. I gave you one, and whoops, now this little puppy is up to fourteen. Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented or left kudos. I wasn't sure how people would take it, but I'm glad you're enjoying. x

The first time Severus wakes with the weight of Hecate Hardbroom’s body on his chest he is, more than anything else, disorientated.  His first thought upon finding himself unable to move is that he’s been attacked.  It takes Severus several non-verbal attempts at counter-curses before he realises that the cause of his immobilisation is not, as he’d suspected, the full-body bind curse, but a woman’s body.  His eyes begin to focus in the dim room, darkened by heavy curtains drawn against what must be sunlight outside.  There is an ocean of darkness spread across his chest. 

Hair. 

And then it comes rushing back to him.  The inscrutable Hecate Hardbroom, letting down her hair, both literally and figuratively.  The way it had spilled over her shoulders and down her back in rich waves.  The smile that had graced her lips, the chink of self-consciousness in it.  He remembers thinking that she was braver than him, letting down her defences so willingly.  He remembers a pang of guilt for making her take such a leap of faith with him. 

Severus, in all honesty, is bemused by the whole situation.  Not by the fact of a woman wanting him.  There have been women - much as his students would baulk at the fact - but there have been women.  Women who’ve been interested.  Women who have flirted and suggested and sought to please him.  And the truth is, Severus had simply never found any of them to be particularly interesting, even after bedding them. 

But then Hecate Hardbroom had walked into his life, ferocious and funny and fantastically attractive to the very particular penchants of one Severus Snape. 

They had not fallen into bed immediately, but the whole process had felt fast - his feelings for her escalating at an alarming rate until she had become the most regular feature of his idle thoughts.

The first time he had kissed her, he had intended to do so chastely, a courtly kiss goodbye, but had found himself pulling her firmly against him, his large hands spreading over her lower back.  Before he’d realised precisely what he was doing, he was kissing her deeply, his tongue probing her mouth as if searching for the answers to life; the answer to why he had spent so much of his apart from her. 

Hecate had responded with equal intent, in that moment wanting nothing more than the man before her.  She could not recall ever wanting a man so much. 

The next time they saw each other, there had been a plan developed, a room booked.  It had all felt uncomfortably premeditated to Severus, a man who had never expected to love again, let alone have love requited, have a relationship.  But here he is, contentedly pinned down by her slender body, his hands spread across her naked back. 

He has a vivid flashback to a shortening of her name falling from his lips as she trailed her stiletto point nails down his bare chest.  He thinks of the way she had panted his own, had sunk her teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.  The first time.  The second and third she had not bothered to stifle the sounds of her pleasure. 

Their legs are tangled this morning.  Her arm is bent, her hand curled possessively around his shoulder.  He wonders how long she will sleep, how long he can preserve this perfect moment.  Gingerly, the fingers of Severus’s right hand lift from her back and wind themselves into the soft tresses tumbling across both of their bare skin.  The familiar smells of a potions lab emanate softly from her, mingling with the hint of sweat and sex in the room.  Severus wishes she were resting slightly higher on his body, so he could bury his nose in the curve of her neck, sink into the scent of her skin.  But she isn’t, and he will have to make his peace with it.

Severus muses on how rarely he has woken with a woman beside him.  The times he has, he has felt awkward, keen to extricate himself, to return to the comfort of his daily routine.  Today, he can already feel a knot of anxiety in his stomach at the thought of her being out of his reach.

As if on cue, Hecate shifts slightly against his him, pressing her face into his chest.  A contented little sigh passes over the back of her throat, before she inhales him deeply.  When she lifts her head, her eyes are dark with lust, and a satisfied smile is playing about her lips.  Severus can’t suppress the swell of pride that rises within him for having elicited such an expression on the normally inscrutable witch. 

“Good morning,” she murmurs. He has never coveted a sound so intently as the sound of her voice, honeyed and dangerous all at once.  A poisonous flower with an intoxicating scent.  

Severus releases his fingers from her hair and caresses her face tenderly.  “Good morning.” 

There is a moment of impasse as each waits for the other to relent and kiss them first.

Severus does the honours, and Hecate meets him in the middle, her body moving up his.  Severus almost purrs with the sensation of her skin brushing against him.  His large hands cradle her face, fingers once more twining themselves in her hair as he brings their lips together. 

The night before he had handled her with a kind of intense delicacy, like she was a potion he was trying to perfect.  “I won’t break, Severus.”  She had murmured at him, her fingers on his jaw, and her lips soon to follow them. 

“I make a habit of never being irreverent with a beautiful woman.”  Severus had replied smoothly.  Hecate has so rarely been called beautiful that her only response had been to kiss him again. 

He is gripping her body more firmly this morning, and she is pleased.  Hecate wants to absorb every molecule of him, wants to learn the fragrance of his skin by heart.  She relaxes into his embrace, brushing his hair back from his face with he tips of her nails and enjoying the shudder that runs through his body as a result. 

“Are you required to be anywhere today, Professor Snape?”  He is certain he can feel her words reverberate through his chest.  He fingers her hair idly with his right hand, draws little stars on the bare skin of her back with the other.  He is pleased by the slight rise of goose bumps under his fingertips. 

“Nowhere but here.” 

“Tremendous.”  The witch in his arms is all but purring as she moves back to his lips.  For the first time in his life not only does Severus refrain from fleeing the scene of a romantic encounter as soon as physically possible, he spends half the day in bed with her.  The couple leaves the little sanctuary only when the need for food becomes impossible to ignore.  Privately, Severus and Hecate both think they could quite happily adapt to a life that includes being confined to a bed with each other, rather than just an office with a stack of disappointing potions homework to mark.  


	3. The Essential Rejuvenation Provided by Oxygen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a drink sitting on the table in anticipation of her arrival. Minerva is, mercifully, keeping her distance, and Hagrid is too distracted with Madame Rosmerta to pay much attention to the surly potions master. But surly is not the word to describe him when he sees the door swing open and grant admittance to Hecate Hardbroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's that time of week again - and today I'm going to post two chapters. Hooray!  
> Thank you again to everyone who's read and reviewed or left kudos. I'm glad you're enjoying them as much as I am. xx Tricki

It happened quicker than Severus could have predicted, the instinctive rightness between the two of them that accelerated the escalation of the relationship.  They had felt right.  She had felt right to him.  He respects her utterly, the dryness of their humour, the disciplined way they approach their lives, and the strictness of their teaching all blend together perfectly.  Over the past five years, the idea of being without her has become the least palatable concept in his life.  Severus is mulling over this, once again over a firewhisky, but this time in the Three Broomsticks.  Hecate is transferring herself to Hogsmeade for lunch during one of the semi-regular Hogsmeade weekend trips at any moment.  There is a drink sitting on the table in anticipation of her arrival.  Minerva is, mercifully, keeping her distance, and Hagrid is too distracted with Madame Rosmerta to pay much attention to the surly potions master.  But surly is not the word to describe him when he sees the door swing open and grant admittance to Hecate Hardbroom.  Laying his eyes on her for the first time in weeks is like taking the first a breath after depriving yourself of oxygen to stop hiccoughs.  The hint of a smile curls his lips.  He likes that she’s transferred to the road so as not to draw undue attention within the pub.  He is itching with his desire to touch her.  Hecate glides across the room, boots clicking efficiently on the stone floor.  He is kissing her before she can speak. 

“Severus,” the witch says with an uncharacteristically soft smile, her fingers brushing over his jaw.  “It’s as if you missed me.” 

“I confess, Cate, the sporadic nature of our contact during term leaves me... unsatisfied.”  Severus states, the fingertips of his right hand resting on her neck as lightly as a whisper.  Hecate still purrs internally at the use of the pet name that fell from his lips involuntarily the first time he was inside her.  

“So that’s what this is all about.”  She teases, her lips twisting further into a wry smile. 

“Perhaps one small aspect.”  He says, brushing his lips against hers again so faintly she thinks she may have imagined it. 

“How are you, my love?”  She asks, trailing the backs of her fingers down his cheek. 

_Already dreading letting you go_.  Severus thinks to himself.  _Already wondering when I shall see you again._  He overcompensates for the swelling of emotion within him by putting on his most disengaged potions master drawl.  “Surviving.  And you, my dear?”

“Right now, exceeding expectations.  Shall we order?”  

 

They sit and eat and chatter at a discreet table in the corner of the Three Broomsticks for almost an hour and a half, Severus’ hand sneaking under the table to hold Hecate’s as often as possible.  Hecate can’t help letting her mind wander to the holidays, to the next time she will be able to find herself next to Severus when she wakes in the morning on a daily basis.  They manage the odd night here and there between holidays, but Hecate finds herself longing for him at the end of the day, wishing he were close at hand to debrief the petty trials and tribulations of life in a magical school.  She feels something akin to weltschmerz when she thinks about all the time they could have spent flirtatiously arguing about potion ingredients over the years, but haven't due to proximity. Hecate knows this is the life they have agreed upon, and she is grateful of the time she has him.  It simply never feels like enough.  

“I seem to have lost your attention, Hecate.”  Severus observes.  Hecate’s dark eyes flit back to him. 

“You always have some of my attention, Severus.”  She retorts.

Severus allows a rare smile to curl his lips.  “Flattery is beneath you, Cate.”  He says, before bending forward and meeting her lips with his own.  Hecate winds her fingers into his black cravat and uses it to pull him closer until her chest is pressing against his.  Severus is worried by how profoundly he has been longing to settle his hands on the curve of her waist. 

He deepens the kiss, even though he is acutely aware that they are almost certainly being observed by someone he knows – possibly everyone he knows.  Severus has never been a man who coped with being gossiped about – despised, yes, but gossiped about, no.  Today, it’s not that he’s too distracted by the motion of Hecate’s tongue to notice that he will potentially become the source of everyone’s evening musings, every infantile bit of chatter in the Hogwarts corridors, but that, for the first time, he simply doesn’t care. 

As if the universe has determined to prove a point, when he pulls back from her, Severus’ eyes focus not on the witch before him, but on his three least favourite students.  He groans with displeasure, and without a hint of humour Hecate responds with “I didn’t think it was quite that bad.”

“No.  Potter.”  Hecate’s eyes turn to a picture on the wall and takes in the reflection of one of the most famous underage wizards in the world, his scruffy ginger friend, and a stressed-looking young witch. 

“Ah.  And his wretched friends.”  Hecate purrs disdainfully.  If possible Severus loves her even more for how thoroughly she’s internalised his own prejudice against the trio.

 

On the other side of the Three Broomsticks, Ron Weasley frowns deeply and asks “Is that _Snape?_ With a _girl_?” 

“Actually, Ron, I think he’s with a grown woman.”  Hermione shoots back sardonically.  For a girl not yet fourteen years old, she has firm views about the importance of language.

“Sorry I’m not up to your genius standards, Hermione.”  He says, rolling his eyes. 

“Maybe she’s his sister?”  Harry suggests, running his eyes over the pair again.  “I mean, they look quite similar.”  Ron is about to agree that this could be a possibility, having only noticed the pair after they parted from their kiss, when Severus runs his finger up the length of Hecate's throat to tilt her head up. 

“I _definitely_ don’t touch my sister like that.  Also, wouldn’t someone have mentioned if Snape had a sister?”

“Honestly you two, don’t you know anything?”  Hermione groans in exasperation.  They boys stare at her blankly, and Hermione sighs.  “That’s Hecate Hardbroom.  She’s the Deputy Headmistress at Cackle’s Academy.  She’s internationally respected in the potions community.” 

“At where?”  Ron frowns. 

“Cackle’s Academy.  It’s an all-girls witching academy disguised as the ruins of Overblow Castle.  They teach a stream of magic that’s a bit more in line with Wiccan philosophy than Hogwarts is.”  Hermione can see that this means almost nothing to her best friends, even though they’ve all sat through years of History of Magic together. 

She would launch into a lecture about it, but thankfully for Ron and Harry everyone’s attention is pulled by the pair of professors across the room. 

 

“They seem insufferable.”  Hecate comments, sipping at her firewhiskey and continuing to watch the reflection of the students. 

Severus’ lips twitch, but this time he suppresses his smile.  “Your ability to make accurate assessments of people is one of many reasons I fell in love with you, Miss Hardbroom.” 

Hecate’s eyes soften, and her lips curve wickedly.  “I would have made a very good Slytherin, Professor.”  

With that, Hecate runs her stiletto point nails up Severus’ trouser-clad quadriceps, making him shiver almost imperceptibly.  “Hecate,” he says, the word a caution that she doesn’t heed.  She leans forward and kisses him again, thoroughly and deliberately.  Severus is almost purring by the time they pull apart.  Hecate smiles lasciviously at him and brings her fingers to the line of his jaw. 

“I think a month’s detention any time they mention it should help seal the lips of your less compliant students.” 

“You are a harsh mistress, Hecate.”  Severus says, eyes glinting with reverence. 

“How else does one achieve excellence?” 

After holding his gaze for an eternal moment, Hecate flips open the watch around her neck for the first time since she entered the Three Broomsticks. 

“I’m sorry, my love.  I really must be getting back.  Ada wishes to discuss the new entrance examination.  Although I fail to see the problem with the one we currently use.” 

Severus holds her delicate hand in his large one, runs his thumb over her knuckles.  He is a man who has learnt never to show pain, or sorrow, or longing, so he does not let her see how much the thought of her departure grieves him.

“Of course.  The price one pays for high office.”  Her eyebrow quirks microscopically, belying the fact that she cannot tell if he’s teasing her.

Severus leaves a handful of coins on the table and escorts Hecate out of the pub, hiding his reluctance.  They stop in a secluded part of the main street, facing each other.  Hecate trails the tips of her fingernails down the stiff black fabric of his waistcoat. 

“I trust you will miss me dreadfully.”  Hecate murmurs.  Severus can feel the soft cloud of her breath breaking over his face in the cold air.  He breathes her in, knowing he will not have the luxury of her for some time.  Playing for time, he straightens the collar of her cloak.

“The agony will be indescribable.”  He retorts in his idiosyncratic Severus Snape drawl, although for once he is not being sardonic.

Hecate bends forward and kisses him again, suddenly very aware of how long it might be until the next time she tastes him.  The air crackles around them, and Hecate smiles into the kiss. 

“I love you, Severus.”  Whispers the normally emotionally impenetrable potions mistress.  His fingers find her cheek again and, as always, she marvels at the lightness of his touch, the tenderness with which he handles her.  She is still pondering this when the hand in question slips down her arms until his fingers are tangled with hers.

“And I love you, Hecate.” 

Each brings one of the other’s hands to their own mouth.  The feeling of her skin on his lingers even after she has completed her transfer spell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, he pronounces 'Cate' like 'Catie' 99% of the time.


	4. The Comforting Stability of Bricks and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are making me increasingly anxious, Severus.” She remarks. He can tell; her whole body seems to be pulling away from him, even though she hasn’t moved.  
> “That is not my intention.”  
> “I would suggest you get to the point then.” She says, and were he not so certain in his decision already, Severus would wonder if they are too similar to coexist. But they aren’t. And he is certain.  
> “I believe a fundamental change to our relationship is required.”

Severus spends the next week preoccupied with the idea of seeing Hecate again.  He is uncharacteristically distracted during classes.  He takes points from Slytherin by mistake, spills invisibility draught down his front and spends half an hour with the middle of his torso missing, and barks quite unkindly at Professor Sprout.  Severus tries to deny that all of this displacement can be traced back to the fact that he is frustrated beyond description that he can’t simply turn and find Hecate beside him.  Severus has spent many agonising years longing for someone who will never return to him.  He knows what it is to have the irreparable absence of someone marking his life, and he knows now that, with the benefit of choice, he will not inflict such an absence on himself. 

 

Severus has no intention of beating around the bush having come to his realisation, and takes himself to Dumbledore’s office at the earliest opportunity.

“Albus,” he says, the gravity of his tone making the elder wizard look up over his half moon spectacles, clearly bracing for some very bad news. 

“I wish to discuss the prospect of living outside the grounds of Hogwarts.” 

Albus is surprised that this is where Severus was intending to take the conversation, and his face shows it.  “Of course, Severus.  Please, have a seat.”

Severus looks at the chair on the other side of Dumbledore’s desk, hesitates, and instead of sitting, tugs at the pristine white cuff of his shirt and remains on his feet. 

“There is... a woman.”  Severus reveals, waiting for another flash of surprise behind Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes. 

But this time, it does not come.  “Ah, yes.  Miss Hecate Hardbroom, I believe.” 

The only indication of Severus’ surprise is the almost imperceptible tick of the left corner of his lips.  He shouldn’t be surprised.  He knows this.  They were seen by two members of staff and who could guess how many students. 

“Yes.”  Severus drawls, dark eyes guarded.  He is disused to divulging any information about his personal life to anyone. 

“She has rather turned your head, then.”  Dumbledore observes.

“I have found myself...”  Severus hesitates, wondering how honest he should be, how honest he has the capacity to be about something that makes him feel this vulnerable.  “Quite unable to be without her.”

Dumbledore smiles kindly at his potions master.  “One of the more pleasurable agonies of the human condition.” 

“So some may say.”  Severus retorts, Dumbledore’s warmth making his guard rise.  Albus becomes harder then, sitting straighter in his chair.

“Do not squander love out of fear, Severus.  I think you will find that love, in the end, is all that reveals the light in our darkest moments.” 

Severus gives a contained nods, hearing Dumbledore’s message with perfect clarity.  The world will only become a darker place in the coming years, and they are all in need of the grounding force of love around them while it happens. 

“And on that basis, Severus, I encourage you wholeheartedly to seek alternate accommodation, should Miss Hardbroom agree.” 

Severus nods his thanks, before turning sharply on his heel and exiting the Headmaster’s office.

 

As Severus arrives spontaneously in the nearest wizarding village to Cackle’s Academy, an owl begins knocking at the window of Hecate’s potions classroom.  Hecate’s mouth tightens at the thought of her class watching her read a missive that has undoubtedly come from her lover.  He normally refrains from sending her mail during school hours.  Hecate transfers the owl inside rather than opening the window.  The bird spins its head in confusion, blinking rapidly.  When it lands on Hecate’s hand and extends its leg, it is giving the most grudging vibe a Eurasian Eagle-Own can. 

_Cate,_

_Lunch?  I shall be waiting in the Pickled Dragon._

_SS_

Hecate re-reads his familiar spiky scrawl.  He is not a man given to spontaneity in her experience, yet here he is, two miles from the school she presides over for an impromptu lunch.  Hecate summons a quill from her desk and scribbles on the back of his message,

_1pm._

_x H_

She thinks the economy of characters will please him, and when she sends the bird back to find its master, she takes the unprecedented step of carrying it to the window herself, letting it out in the normal fashion after stroking it gently.  When it takes off, the owl has still not decided whether or not to peck her, given the dizziness her transfer spell caused it.

The class stares at her in concerned silence.  Who is this woman?  Gently stroking animals, opening windows manually?  Mavis Spellbody has started to entertain the idea that her Deputy Headmistress might be a twin too, taking after Miss Cackle, and perhaps the version of HB they usually get is the evil one...

“Mavis Spellbody!”  Hecate snaps dangerously, bringing Mavis out of her reverie with jarring force.  “Would you care to explain to me why you felt the need to include unicorn hair in a very simple fire breath potion?”

Mavis fumbles desperately for the answer while the voice in her head mumbles gently  _Nope.  Definitely not HB’s nice twin..._

 

 

Hecate arrives at the unassuming wizarding pub at precisely 1pm, just as Severus had expected.  She performs a transfer spell directly into the rickety building, and before Severus has had the chance to react to her presence, the words “Severus, has something happened?” are out of her mouth. 

Severus’ eyes soften with affection.  He stands and shakes his head.  “Not at all, my love.”  Hecate is still frowning at him with confusion; the expression remains even after Severus has gently pressed his lips to hers in greeting.  She hesitates before sitting, and when she does sit, she does so stiffly, as if still braced for bad news. 

“Hecate,” he begins seriously.  Her back remains ramrod straight.  A waiter approaches their table, and both members of the couple shoot a ferocious glance at the young wizard, clearly indicating _not now_.  He scuttles away as if burned.

“You are making me increasingly anxious, Severus.”  She remarks.  He can tell; her whole body seems to be pulling away from him, even though she hasn’t moved.  Her eyes, usually softer when they are resting on him than when they study anyone else in the world, are so hard she may as well be teaching a first year potions class. 

“That is not my intention.” 

“I would suggest you get to the point then.”  She says, and were he not so certain in his decision already, Severus would wonder if they are too similar to coexist.  But they aren’t.  And he is certain.

“I believe a fundamental change to our relationship is required.” 

Hecate blinks at him, her eyebrows shooting skywards.  This is the last thing she would have expected him to say.  She is trying to formulate a response, trying to find words, but eventually she simply blinks at him again. 

“I have found myself distracted, since I last saw you.  It has led me to consider the future.  And my desire to... spend it with you.”  Hecate’s face twitches, pulling in what feels like four directions at once.  She is trying not to smile, trying not to frown, trying to process what’s happening.

“Severus, what are you suggesting?”  She asks softly. 

Severus Snape, ordinarily fearless and unemotional Severus Snape, consciously gathers his wits and proclaims.  “I would like us to live together.  I would... like you to be my wife.”  Hecate closes her eyes, as a smile takes her face by force.  Hecate extends one of her hands to reach for him.  He makes a noise when her fingers find his, about to resume his spiel, but Hecate holds up a silencing finger, eyes still closed.  She is hoping to absorb every sensation, hold it within her forever more. 

Hecate Hardbroom has spent so much of her life trying to be untouched by emotion, trying to separate herself from the tidal waves that so challenge the people she knows and observes.  But now she realises that there’s nothing she wants more than to spend idle evenings and times of hardship and every moment of happiness with Severus Snape.  Hecate eventually finds the resolve to open her eyes.  He is shaken to see the threat of tears in them.  “That would make me very happy, Severus.” 

Severus lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles delicately, the ghost of a smile playing about his own mouth. 

“I am very pleased to hear that, my love.” 

 

From there, it’s all easier than either of them could have anticipated.  They quickly fall in love with a cottage with a lush, tumbling garden and a black wrought iron fence - not at all the usual style for this kind of house - separating the place from the rest of the world.  The cottage backs onto a river, and Severus finds the soft hissing of water slipping over rocks soothing.  There is a towering oak tree in the front yard.  When they first view the property, Hecate lays her palm on the rough bark and closes her eyes.  The ghost of a smile tugs at her lips as she feels the force of nature run through her.  In return, the tree’s many leaves turn a deeper shade of green.  She turns over her shoulder to find Severus observing her.  Hecate marvels at how tenderly his gaze sits upon her.  When their eyes meet there is already a silent agreement between them that this will be the one. 

They furnish the house functionally and without sentiment.  Neither of them is particularly sentimental about many things beyond each other.  When they begin their cohabitation, Hecate is surprised by how often his fingers seek her out, how often they land, whisper light, on the small of her back as he passes or stands beside her.  The longer they live together, the more Hecate relaxes into the arrangement, and the more frequently she finds herself touching casual kisses to his cheek or lips.  Hecate takes more comfort than she would like from falling asleep with a pale but strong arm draped protectively around her body.  She enjoys being wrapped in the warmth of him.  She enjoys studying his sleeping face by the moonlight, observing him when he is utterly unburdened.  Hecate, for the first time in her life feels ordinary; to her great surprise, she doesn’t mind. 

As Hecate likes to study his sleeping form before she lets herself succumb to sleep, Severus has continued to observe her before she wakes ever since their first night together.  Most nights she sleeps on his chest, his arms wound securely around her.  He likes being able to feel her breathe, her ribs expand and contract beneath his arms.  Some nights he sleeps wrapped around her curled form, his nose buried in the curve of her shoulder, the intoxicating scent of her washing over him.  Tonight was one such night.  Tonight there is clearly something on her mind, for it was she who curled and pulled him around her.  Severus’ hyper-analytical brain insists there must be some subconscious reason for the change in her position, but he hasn’t quite cracked the code yet.  When he feels her begin to stir in his arms, Severus presses his mouth to her neck.

“How long have you been waiting to do that, darling?”  She asks, her voice appealingly thick with sleep.  

“Longer, I fear, than you would believe.”  His words glide over her shoulder, and his lips follow them.  There is something comforting, steadying, he finds about having his mouth on her skin. 

“Severus?”  The word steps from between Hecate Hardbroom’s lips in a way that is almost, but not quite, tentative.  He has heard his name from her lips so many times now, he finds himself weighing each ounce of intention from them, almost like a game. 

He stretches further around her, reaching for her free hand and twining his fingers through hers, bringing their hands back into her chest.  He nuzzles softly under the hair that has fallen over her ear to kiss her neck, before drawling an easy “Yes?”

Hecate pauses.  She thinks some part of her has always known that she will ask him this question, but the timing was always a highly changeable element.  For years, she convinced herself she didn't really need to know, that it was irrelevant to their life together. But she's curious.  She’s always been curious.  And so, curled atypically in Severus Snape’s arms, Hecate Hardbroom says “What was she like?” 

He doesn’t need to ask who.  Severus is jolted violently into the past, to a teenage girl with vibrant red hair and bright green eyes.  He feels like he’s raced through every second of memory he has of her - from the little girl who was kind to him when he was a lonely outsider, to the woman who would no longer speak to him, the woman whose lifeless body he held in his arms and wept over. 

“She was... talented.  Extremely talented.”  Hecate almost flinches, worried about how many of these terms will be ones he could apply to both her and Lily Evans.  “And kind.”  Hecate scoffs quietly.  It’s as if he’s read her mind.  Hecate is not kind, except perhaps to him.  Hecate has no desire to be described as kind.

“She picked her battles badly.  I did something to her that she didn’t forgive me for.  She defended me until then.” 

Hecate wants to turn her face towards him, to read his emotions in his dark eyes.  Even Hecate, who knows him better than anyone, struggles to hear them in his voice when he doesn’t want to share them. 

Severus consciously releases his grip on himself.  He loves the woman in his arms.  He’s asked her to marry him.  Before they had even slept together Severus told her the most dangerous details about his life – his secret association with the Order of the Phoenix, his history with the Dark Lord.  He has always told her the most tightly held details of his life because he wants to spend the rest of it with her.  But in all this, he has only ever skimmed the surface of Lily.  The whole story, his complete history, is the least he owes her.  Severus tells her every painful moment of the intersection his life had with Lily Evans’, relayed at little more than a murmur into her shoulder. 

Hecate listens, patiently and openly, letting the story be about Severus rather than herself.  She does not turn to him throughout the tale, but she squeezes his fingers more tightly at critical moments.  When she’s certain his story has concluded, Hecate turns over her shoulder and presses her lips softly against his.  She raises a hand to caress his face, to wipe away the tear that has left a stain on his cheek.  He loves her a little more for not acknowledging his rare show of vulnerability. 

“Thank you for telling me.”  She whispers against his mouth. 

He doesn’t answer her with words.  Instead he rolls her body in his arms and continues to kiss her, losing himself in her perfect mouth.  For the first time in his life, Severus has found a home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser trailer: Next chapter brings a celebration that is attended by Ada and Pippa.


	5. The Binding Properties of Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding - and there is one, which comes as a surprise to the few people they hold dear, is an intimate affair, a formality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reviews and kudos! 
> 
> Warning: Fluff ahead.

The wedding - and there is one, which comes as a surprise to the few people they hold dear, is an intimate affair, a formality.  They stand in a clearing in an enchanted wood, with Pippa and Severus shooting terse little jibes at each other. 

“I’d always thought you were holding out for Mister Right, Hiccup.  But here we are...” 

“And I’d assumed the headmistress of a magical academy might dress more... professionally.”

“Come now, Severus.  This isn’t an event I consider work.  Surely nor do you?” 

Hecate tugs down the sleeve of her deep emerald dress.  It is much the same style as her regular attire, but fashioned from an intricate lace and with a slightly fuller skirt. 

She doesn’t look up from the adjustment as she gently chides “Now, now, you two.  There’s no need for bickering.  I’m more than capable of loving you both.”  

“I am sure Pippa and I are aware of that, Cate.” 

“‘Cate’ now, is it?”  Pippa queries, eyes on her ferociously pink fingernails.

“Behave, please, Pippa.”  Hecate scolds her friend, glancing sharply at the other witch before catching sight of Ada and Albus laughing a little way across the grass.  Unthinkingly, she has lifted her hand to trail her fingers down Severus’ tricep.

The contact makes Severus turn to her, drinking in her porcelain skin and ebony hair, her dark lips and the wicked glint in her eyes.  Severus Snape would follow Hecate Hardbroom straight into the fires of Hell.  He has never been so sure of anything in his life. 

 

“Well, Ada, I believe it’s time to commence the young lovers’ wedding ceremony?”  Albus’ eyes twinkle joyfully.  Pippa looks ready to explode with a pointed remark at the use of the term ‘young’ to describe either her best friend or said friend’s intended, but Hecate’s eyes flash with indescribable danger.  Pippa has the good sense to bite her tongue, but her bubblegum pink lips curl deviously. 

Hecate begins to turn to stone at being the focus of attention in a personal situation, regardless of how few people are focussed on her.  Severus, equally uncomfortable with what he will later describe as a spectacle, catches her gaze.  And he’s steady.  Straight of back and clear of gaze, and telling her without words that this will be fine, and over, and just a decorative heading to the new chapter they will begin and share.

Hecate’s mouth softens ever so slightly, and her eyes follow, remaining on his for the duration of proceedings. 

“Are we ready then, you two?”  Ada asks.  Her smile is sunshine and treacle.  Hecate feels like a teenager again.  Hecate and Severus both dip their chins ever so slightly in agreement, a perfect mirror of each other. 

“Terrific.  Hands, please.” 

Severus turns his right hand palm up, his left hovers palm down in mid air, waiting for Hecate to settle hers against them. 

Albus and Ada stand on either side of them, and what looks like a glowing strip of silver silk begins to snake from Albus’ wand around the lovers’ hands, as Albus and Ada each performs their own kind of binding spell.  A silver glow envelops both of the potions masters, and the clearing in the woods seems to vibrate with the power of the connection. 

“And the more traditional aspect of the ceremony.”  Albus says with a soft but serious smile still on his lips. 

The couple has kept the formality to a minimum, unwilling to unduly extend the length of time their feelings are required to be aired in public. 

Hecate drops her right hand from below his left, and, with a delicate twirl of her fingers, conjures a ring around Severus’ finger. 

“With this ring, I, Hecate Alectrona Hardbroom, wed thee Severus Snape.”

Not for the first time, Severus is envious that she can exercise such magic without the aid of a wand.  But nevertheless, he drops his right hand and flicks his wand from his sleeve, before pointing the ebony instrument at her slender finger.  Two tiny metal snakes spring from it, one dark pewter and one platinum, with glinting emerald eyes.  They wind themselves around Hecate’s finger, and around each other for eternity.  With a final minute flourish of Severus’ wand, another emerald appears, held in place between the snakes’ open mouths.  The detail and delicacy of the ring is astonishing, and Hecate is taken aback by the beauty of it

“With this ring, I, Severus Snape, wed thee Hecate Alectrona Hardbroom.” 

Hecate is concerned that she very well may be feeling something along the lines of... happiness.  The kind of happiness more normal people strive their whole lives to find.  The kind of happiness she never expected, so never bothered to seek.  

Albus smiles warmly, clasping his hands together as if to contain his own delight - a delight Hecate is bemused that anyone can feel on their behalf.  “Ada and I have the great pleasure of declaring you man and wife.”

Ada pipes up, sunshine pouring from her smile as always.  “I believe a kiss is traditional at this point in proceedings...”

Her eyebrows flash with coy challenge, and Hecate fights very hard to keep herself from glaring at her employer and mentor.  Instead her eyes meet Severus’, and she is momentarily lost in them, in their velvety midnight intensity, and she does as she is bid.  His large hands smooth over her waist while one of hers finds his cheek, just a whisper of a touch, before their lips meet. 

The air around them crackles and sparks vibrantly emerald, and Severus is taken aback by the sheer power that courses through his new wife’s veins; how tightly it is tied to her emotions.  He is impressed, as always, at the constant control she must exercise to keep such magic in check. 

She whispers “my love” when they break apart and their eyes connect once more.  She says the words so quietly he sees the shape of her mouth more than hears them.  Her eyes are completely unguarded in a way he almost never sees them when there are others present. 

Severus takes her hand.  He says nothing to her in response - how can he?  How can he tell her she is his reason now, is the answer to a question he didn’t know he’d asked.  He feels inept with his wordless state, brings her fingers to his lips to compensate for it, then softly kisses the ring on her finger.  Each of their rings is enchanted to only be visible to those present at the ceremony.  It’s a shame; Hecate’s in particular deserves to be seen.  Hecate studies his face while his lips linger on her hand, and she is taken aback by the quiet devotion she finds there.  For a few minutes, the world beyond them may as well not exist. 

“Alright, you two, enough of this nonsense.”  Pippa says, dragging Hecate unpleasantly back to reality.  “I’ve booked us a private dining room at The Enchanted Forest.” 

“We appear to already _be_ in an enchanted forest.”  Hecate drawls in her best dissatisfied-school-mistress tone.

“Don’t be like that, Hiccup.  It’s a surprise.  I’m being nice.”  Hecate has the good sense not to respond - or perhaps Ada simply begins speaking before she has a chance.

“What a lovely gesture, Miss Pentangle.”

 

* * *

 

The Enchanted Forest is, as it turns out, rather a nice place.  Intimate, and magical – the kind of place Hecate is sure couples usually cram dozens of their friends into, while their party is of a mere five.  Truth be told, as lovely as the gesture is, she is rather overtired by the unnecessary socialising.  By this point she would much rather be at home, alone, with Severus. 

As Hecate watches him quietly, distracted from fetching herself another drink, Albus Dumbledore seems to materialise at her side. 

“There is something I have been meaning to tell you, Hecate my dear.”  She starts at the sound of his voice, but turns her dark chocolate eyes on him.  “If Lily were here, she would thank you for taking the burden from his eyes and returning the smile to them.”

“Forgive my scepticism.”  Hecate replies, and Albus knows, instinctively, that her potions-professor-drawl is a defensive wall she has conjured to protect herself from a hurt she feels she can’t withstand. 

“I’m afraid I won’t, Miss Hardbroom.  Lily was Severus’ last defender in any fight - until...”

“Yes.”  Hecate says, well versed in the Chronicles of Severus and Lily, as mumbled into the back of her shoulder by a lover ordinarily reluctant to share such feelings.  His fingers had trembled as he relayed the tale to her, and she had twined her fingers through his to keep them from shaking. 

“So you know, then, that Lily made her choices.  As do we all.” 

“Yes,” Hecate says again.  She releases her grip on the control she holds to herself so tightly, just a modicum.  What has she to lose now?  “But that was Lily’s choice, not Severus’.  You and I both know he would have made a different one.  And a woman cannot compete with a ghost, Professor.  Even the most powerful witch can’t alter the heart.” 

“There is a difference, my dear, between being the girl one longs for in youth, the girl who can live only in memory, and the woman one chooses to marry.”  

Hecate nods, sharply.  A little dip of her chin up and down.  Albus has no idea if she’s really taking his words to heart.  Albus shifts so he is a little more beside her, forcing her gaze towards her new husband.  Severus’ gaze passes over her, his lips quirking fondly as they take her in.  Albus saw him smile so rarely before Hecate.  If it were his place, he would thank her for bringing some light back to a man whose future only held darkness.  But it isn’t, so he conceals his gratitude as an observation. 

“It is a very large task, to remove the weight of burden when the thing causing it remains.”  Albus says pointedly, his shining blue eyes on Hecate’s almost black ones. 

She holds his gaze steady, replies softly “I know”, and Albus correctly reads from her response she knows Severus’ task and his almost inevitable fate, has bound herself to him even with this knowledge. 

“And yet you have managed it.”

“We found each other and provided something to each other that neither of us knew we lacked.  I am glad to help unburden him.”

 

“Galleon for them.”  Pippa says, materialising behind Severus’ shoulder.  He’s met the woman all of five times and already he thinks of her as an irksome younger sister. 

“I didn’t realise thoughts were subject to inflation.”

“How droll.”  Pippa retorts, bored, so very bored by his... well really his inherent Snape-ness.

“She deserves more of a future than I can give her.”  He says, suddenly suspicious that she might have slipped him a drop of veritaserum.  Hecate laughs, suddenly, at something Albus has said, dropping her head back a little.  Her long pale neck is begging for his mouth, even at this distance. 

“I’m afraid she seems intent on the whatever future you have to offer, Severus.”  Pippa is needling in the way of a teenage girl.  Severus fails to see her appeal to his new bride, but decides this is a conversation for another day.  “And honestly, I did try to talk her out of it.” 

“I have no doubt.” 

Hecate catches his gaze, her mouth twitching upwards at the sight of him, and he is moving towards her before he can excuse himself from Pippa’s company. 

Gently, Severus curves his hand around Hecate’s when he reaches her side.  In a more private setting she would touch her cheek to his shoulder or her lips to his. 

“Might I speak with you outside a moment, my love?”  Severus requests in his quiet, stiff way. 

“Of course, Severus.”  She replies, turning her body towards him and touching his arm with her free hand.  “Excuse me, Albus.”  The headmaster nods his consent, guessing, correctly, that Severus simply wants a private moment with his new bride. 

Snape releases her fingers and makes to follow her out into the courtyard, but a minute gesture of Dumbledore’s hand stays him.  “Severus.  Be kind to yourself.  She loves you exactly as you are.” 

“She is a wiser woman than that, I would suggest.”

“No love is wise, Severus.  But a lifetime without it is the worst tragedy that can be wrought upon a person.”  A different version of Severus would examine this logic with his headmaster over a drink, but despite the intensity of the trials they will have to face together, this version of Severus does not feel at liberty to do so.  He tips his chin brusquely at Dumbledore, and trails Hecate out of the room. 

 

Hecate turns dark, interrogatory eyes on him, waiting for him to speak.  Severus reaches for her cheek, taking half her face in his hand.  Hecate’s eyes slip closed, and she nuzzles softly against his palm. 

“I fear I will ask you to bear too many burdens in our time together, Cate.” 

“I would rather love you and be burdened than not, Severus.”  Her fingertips have sought his cheek, she has closed the distance between them.  He is too much taller than her for their eyes to meet comfortably.  He drops his forehead to rest on hers. 

“I love you.”  Severus says the well-worn words like an assurance, as if he has picked up on the fleeting doubts about Lily that plagued her earlier. He has taken her hands in his, by her side.

“And I love you.”  She replies.  “Very much.  In a way I never thought I would.” 

“In a way I never believed I could.”  Severus counters.

“Again.”  Hecate corrects him.

Severus turns to ice, stiffening against her.  He doesn’t mean to.  He would like to be the kind of person who could have these conversations with her, honestly and openly.  But his heart has been so carefully contained in a locked box in his chest for such a long time, he hardly remembers how to let it out.  She is the only person he reveals any aspect of it to; the only person who has made him want to reveal it again.  But discussing Lily is not something he expects will ever be easy. 

“I will always love Lily.”  He feels the almost imperceptible wince that shoots through his wife, like one particularly strong heartbeat.  “She will always be my past.  My history.  She will always be the one I failed to save.”  Severus moves his head and touches a kiss to the peak of her jawbone, before whispering “You are all the future I have, Hecate.  You are the only thing I want in it.”  Hecate has flattened herself against his chest, fisted her hand in the pristine black fabric of his robes.  She sniffs slightly, trying to contain herself.  Begging her eyes to stop welling with tears. 

“I am glad we opted against vows.”  She mumbles.  Severus’ lips quirk, and he kisses her perfect hair, which she has let tumble down her back today.  A rare treat for all the world, Severus muses. 

In spite of himself, Severus’ smile broadens.  “I do not recall the last time I smiled before I met you.”  Says the wizard, reaching beneath her chin and gently lifting it so he may kiss her.  When their tongues meet, Severus notices, for the first time, music floating from the restaurant.  He fails to place it as an old Esper Vespertilio record, but Hecate’s eyes fly open, as she braces for what will happen next.

“I shall jinx Ada into the next millennium.”  She snarls.  Severus is about to ask why, when their feet begin to lift off the manicured grass. 

“Ah.”  Says the stiff potions professor with little affectation.

“That levitating records were ever popular says everything that needs to be said about wizardkind.”  Hecate growls, and for some unknown reason, where normally their anger and irritation take the same shape, today, Severus is amused by the scale of it.  Uncertain of how, exactly, this kind of magic will respond to movement, Severus pulls back from her gingerly.  It seems to work as expected.  He pulls her back in.  Her eyebrows are sky-high and her gaze is sceptical, annoyed. 

“Severus, what - ”

“I thought, perhaps, a dance might be in order.” 

He raises his arm, hand still entwined with hers, and she spins in the air like a figure skater.  She is working to maintain her irritation, he can tell.  She is very close to failing in her endeavour. 

“ _Severus_ \- ”  Her tone is warning. 

“Shhh.”  He says, his eyes smiling though his face is not.  He knows her to be an excellent dancer, when she’s had enough firewhiskey.  He pulls her back in, one hand still clasping hers lightly, the other making its way to the small of her back.  His eyes are steady on hers as they float above the ground to Miss Bat’s operatic incantations. 

Feeling her soften in his arms, he offers her a genuine smile, the kind he only gives to her in private.  The warm part of her other half emerging, if briefly.  Hecate feels a familiar pang, and as much as she would like the words not to come into her mind, she thinks _I will lose you soon._   She’s not sure when, but darkness has been encroaching, and it is only a matter of time before Dumbledore asks something enormous of him, and she has no doubt he shall pay a high price for it.  Severus reads something of this concern on her face and says softly, “I am here now, Cate.”  He brings their hands closer and kisses her fingers, holding her gaze pointedly.  “I will be with you as long as I can.” 

Either in concession or acceptance, Hecate nods and rests her head on his shoulder, letting her eyes slip closed and her new husband dance her slowly through mid-air to the sound of one of her work colleagues chanting. 

“What would you think if I suggested an early departure?”  Severus murmurs close to her ear.  He is too aware of the eyes of their guests resting on them through the large window. 

“I would be extremely supportive of such a suggestion.”  Hecate leans back from him as she says it, studying his face.  Their eyes meet with an equal degree of well-concealed mischief dancing behind them.  Their lips bend in matching conspiratorial smiles, and Hecate turns her hand in the air, transferring them both home. 

Severus is surprised at how instantaneously Hecate relaxes.  She shakes out her long hair, and pours them each a firewhiskey.  She brings hers to her lips and takes a liberal mouthful, before passing one to him.  She rolls her shoulders, and she seems a little elated.  Most people do not see Hecate when she is so unencumbered, and Severus is grateful to be privy to it. 

Severus sets both their drinks down before he draws her into his arms. 

“What are you - ?”

“I am dancing with my wife.  Without an audience.”  Hecate seems to accept this, and lets her body move with his, lets herself be spun, and turned, and caressed across their small kitchen.  She tangles her fingers firmly into his inky hair and kisses him deeply. 

The way she kisses him sends Severus back to the first night they spent together, the lead up to that night, when Hecate had unflinchingly suggested that they find a hotel room, as neither of their school quarters was sufficiently private.  The first night they made love was the first time he’d seen her hair down.  It was the first time he’d understood exactly how much he felt for her. 

Mid movement, Hecate reaches for her whiskey and takes another slug.  Severus moves her hair off her face tenderly, her long curls bouncing down her back.  The firewhiskey burns his lips pleasantly as he kisses her.  Severus Snape will never tell another human that his preferred delivery method of firewhiskey is via Hecate Hardbroom’s tongue. 


	6. The Unexpected Power of Fairy Floss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Pippa arrives on the bluestone doorstep of the cottage he and Hecate share with no forewarning, Severus is almost instantly sapped of energy. The feeling of weariness is exacerbated by his wife’s absence. Severus will have to entertain her alone. He wishes she would use the mirror like a normal person from his wife’s school of magic, or send an owl like a normal person from his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with me as Hecate and Severus settle into married life on the cusp of a Wizarding War. You are all excellent. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Set post Goblet Of Fire.

Pippa Pentangle may seem, to the untrained eye, to be the personification of fairy floss, but in reality she is as formidable as any of her contemporaries.  People are, however, correct in their belief that the last person in need of Pippa’s protection is her old friend Hecate Hardbroom.  But the impulse to do so is one she can’t control, particularly when she hears what her dearest friend’s husband has planned for himself. 

Severus Snape has a complex relationship with the brightly attired witch who has somehow remained his wife’s friend for the duration of her life.  He finds her vapid, and tedious, and far too... _bouncy_.  He finds her practice of magic nothing but uninspiring frippery.  He finds her relationship with his wife a constant source of confusion.  But she is loyal, and he values that.  She is smart enough to recognise that his wife is someone worth investing in.  She is smart enough to be suspicious of him.  She is not smart enough to understand the lengths he would go to for Hecate Hardbroom. 

When Pippa arrives on the bluestone doorstep of the cottage he and Hecate share with no forewarning, Severus is almost instantly sapped of energy.  The feeling of weariness is exacerbated by his wife’s absence.  Severus will have to entertain her alone.  He wishes she would use the mirror like a normal person from his wife’s school of magic, or send an owl like a normal person from his. 

“Severus.”  She says, pushing past him into the kitchen of the little cottage. 

“Pippa.  How unexpected.” 

“Yes.”  She says, her eyes sweeping over the place, assessing it as if she hasn’t been here dozens of times. 

“I am afraid Hecate isn’t home.”  He drawls, beseeching all the forces of magic that this piece of information might make her leave. 

“I’ve come to speak to you, actually.” 

“An even more unexpected aspect of your visit, Pippa.” 

She says nothing, and makes no motion to sit, although she has now rested her broomstick by the front door in the space Hecate’s normally occupies. 

“May I offer you something to drink?”  He asks, minding his manners not only because of her friendship with his wife, but because he suspects he is about to be on the wrong end of Pippa Pentangle’s temper.  In the retelling, he is hoping to have done everything in a way that is completely above board.

“It’s come to my attention that you are double crossing He Who Must Not Be Named.”  She says primly.  Severus blanches.  How can she know?  Who else knows? 

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you m - ”

“Let’s not play Witch Ball about it, Severus.  I know more than you give me credit for.” 

“Has Hecate confided this in you?”  It seems the only logical explanation, although he can hardly imagine his wife speaking to anyone about it.  Particularly someone outside the Order.

“Oh, don’t be bat brained, Severus.  Hecate would never put you in such danger.”  She snaps at him. 

Severus can’t contain his need to know.  “Then how - ”

“I... if you must know, I have joined the Order.”

“Indeed?”

“It seemed about time, really.”  Severus contemplates her, the seemingly frivolous, pink-adorned creature in front of him.  It seems she has some broader social conscience after all.  

“Quite.”  Pippa is all too aware of the caution he’s exercising in this conversation, and her need to progress it. 

“I want you to stop.” 

Severus’ expression is all innocent confusion, and Pippa doesn’t buy it for a moment. 

“Hecate is my oldest friend.  You are completely disregarding her by doing something this reckless.  It’s as if you haven’t even considered her!  I’ve never particularly warmed to you, but _even I_ wouldn’t have thought you capable of gambling with her heart like this.  You are putting yourself in a position of the most extreme danger, and when something happens to you, Severus, because you know it will - people don’t get out of missions like this alive – I’ll be the one left here picking up the pieces -”

“You know as well as I do, Pippa,” Severus interrupts coolly, “that Hecate does not go to pieces.  She will bear this - ”

“Like what? Do you honestly expect her to bear the weight of your loss as easily as - as a bad potions lesson?  If you believe that you’re stupider than I thought.”

Pippa draws breath, clutching the back of a chair to contain herself.

“Hecate loves you.  Hecate loves you more than she has ever loved anyone.  And you put yourself in harm’s way at every opportunity!  You are double crossing the most powerful, dangerous dark wizard in all of history.  And you think she would bear any ending that might become of you?”

“I do not think it, Pippa, I know it.  Hecate remembers the world as it was during Lord Voldemort’s rise to power.  She understands what price we may have to pay to stop that darkness returning.”

“Of course she does, intellectually.  But Hecate turns to ice when she’s in pain, and I’m not sure your loss is one she could thaw from.”

Severus is taking in this point when his wife’s voice pierces the air like an arrow.  “If you two are quite finished” she whispers, with an undercurrent of complete fury.  Her dark eyes are blazing with anger.  “I am a grown witch.  I am not in need of protection from either of you, no matter how well intentioned.”  She collects herself a little.  “Pippa.  Severus is right.  I would not destroy the world to keep my husband.”  Severus longs to seek her hand, to grip her cool fingers tightly in his own, but she is too far from him, even in their little kitchen.  She is not looking at either of them, is holding her emotions too tightly to risk either of their gazes undoing her.  “We agreed, before we married, that we would rather have each other for whatever time we could than not have each other at all.  I do not regret that decision.”

Suddenly, Severus’ left hand fists tightly at his side, and he fails to disguise a minute tick of his right cheek as pain shoots up his arm. 

“Severus,” Hecate says softly, crossing to him and settling her left palm flat on his chest.  He is trying to hold himself together for her, and all at once she appreciates and resents it. 

With an almost imperceptible gesture of her fingers, Hecate magically unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and robes, pushes them up his arm.  His dark mark is burning furiously black against his pale skin.  Her eyes are large with concern, and Severus hates that he has caused it.  Part of him, though, still suffers from a gently burning feeling of resentment that she has made him feel love again.  His life was easier when he had locked every inch of feeling away in a private part of him that was never accessed.  His life was easier before her.  He studies her face, hard and closed and demanding, and soft and lovely and loving all at once.  His life is more worthwhile for loving her.  He is glad to have found her, despite the damage it will inevitably wreak on both of them. 

Severus Snape has never been a tender man by anyone’s measure, but even Pippa concedes that towards Hecate, he is almost nothing but tenderness.  The moment that causes this thought in the incandescent witch’s mind, is Severus gently lifting his fingertips to rest on Hecate’s jaw.  His almost black eyes look at her as if there was nothing else of substance in the world. 

“I must leave.”  He says.  Hecate nods.  She had known it the moment she saw his fingers curl in upon themselves. 

“Be safe.”  She says, knowing that her presence in his life makes him less safe by definition; knowing that she is a point of vulnerability; knowing that their feelings for each other are a worthwhile reason to risk personal destruction. 

Severus offers her a miniscule nod in response, presses his lips to hers soundly, murmurs “for you,” and disapparates from her grasp.  Her hand is still curled in mid air, the way it had been curled around his forearm.  She flexes her fingers and turns her gaze down.  Pippa can see Hecate reassembling herself, can see the part of her that feels foolish for showing emotion trying to wrest control back from the part of her that is governed by her heart. 

“I’m afraid of how much you love him, Hiccup.”  Pippa confesses, hoping Hecate takes this in the spirit it’s intended and does not begin to rail at her again. 

Hecate looks up, chocolate eyes softened with the intensity of the moment.  “As am I.”  She replies.  “But I do.  So here we are.” 

Pippa nods, accepting that there’s no point continuing the debate from here.  Hecate is right.  Severus is a fact of her life now, and Pippa realises that even if she did manage to convince her old friend to extract herself from her husband, the damage of his loss would be no less than if he is uncovered as a double agent and dies at the hands of a Death Eater.  “Yes,” the pink-attired witch agrees.  “Here we are.” 

Pippa resists the temptation to pace about the kitchen, to search the cupboards for sugar, to _move_.  She clasps her hands primly in front of herself.  “How long is he gone, usually?”

Hecate has arranged herself into the perfect Deputy Headmistress.  She is all facts, and nothing beyond them.  “Days, often.  Weeks sometimes.  Seven or eight hours for smaller assignments.” 

“And you don’t know, before he...?”

“He is called and he answers.  He often doesn’t know what, precisely, he is being called to do.” 

“How difficult for him.”  Pippa remarks, making her first genuine attempt at viewing the situation from Severus’ perspective.  “Never knowing what kind of danger he’s walking into.  What’s expected of him.” 

“Yes.”  Hecate agrees, closing her fingers around the back of a kitchen chair, curling one at a time in succession.  “Yes.” 

“Well,” Pippa says, with carefully cultivated jollity.  “I suppose that leaves us time for some witches’ brew?” 

Hecate nods, a tight smile playing around her lips.  Tonight, despite the tension of the afternoon, Hecate is glad to have company.

 

* * *

 

When Severus returns home, he is, as always, struck by the physical tug he feels towards his wife.  She is curled neatly on the couch reading when he apparates back into the kitchen.  She has been tight with anticipation of that little popping sound since the moment he left.  She rises before she’s fully determined what’s happened, has crossed to his arms.  His hands trace the contours of her face hungrily, as hers do his.  She runs her palms over his chest, and he knows she is feeling for emotional wounds within him, a skill that rather frightens him.  She can characterise emotional wounds the way normal people neatly divide bruises, cuts, and major injuries.  Silently she decides he’s merely bruised from his most recent efforts, and sinks into his chest with relief.  Severus lifts her head so he can kiss her.  Hecate can tell he’s troubled by whatever he’s been made to do, because the intensity of his kiss makes the air crackle.  She combs his hair softly, so softly, and breathes his name between kisses.  She can feel him relaxing by degrees under her fingers, but the process isn’t quite as fast as Hecate would like.  Hecate Hardbroom is not the kind of wife who generally orders her husband about or makes decisions for his welfare, but today she takes the initiative.  Severus’ every cell is radiating surrender, so she has picked her moment well.  She sweeps his cloak from him and transfers it onto its rightful hanger, before steering him gently into the bathroom.  With a wave of her hand, water comes thundering from the faucet above the claw-footed bathtub.  Hecate continues to gently undress him, until he silently takes over the task himself.  She disappears from the room briefly, returning with unicorn milk, ground aloe leaves, and a drop of mandrake tears, which she mixes into the bath calmly.  Hecate strokes her husband’s face tenderly, waiting for him to defrost, for him to become himself again. 

“Darling?”  She asks softly, and something in her tone awakens him a little.  He turns his head slightly and kisses the heel of her hand, before stepping into the bath.  Hecate passes him a goblet filled with a calming draught, hoping he doesn’t refuse her.  For once, Severus accepts magical interference in his moods, draining the goblet and closing his eyes tightly.  He briefly sinks below the surface of the water, mud evaporating from his skin and hair into the magical liquid.  When he rises again he feels infinitely more himself; he’s not sure if that’s simply from being warm and clean for the first time in days, or whether this is the restorative properties of the unicorn milk. 

As if sensing Hecate is about to leave him alone to bathe, Severus reaches for her hand, grasping it tightly.  Hecate covers his damp fingers with her free hand, and remains perfectly still at his side, like a sentry. 

Hecate’s head is filled with all the things she would like to say to him, to ask him.  The one that clamours most notably is _This won’t get any easier, will it?_   But in truth, she already knows the answer.  When his grip finally begins to loosen on her fingers, Hecate conjures a low stool at the head of the bath and begins combing her fingers through his hair, running her nails over his scalp.  Severus hums contentedly at the sensation.  She magically disentangles the thick strands of his black hair as her fingers slip through it; she is too lost in thought to sense him reaching for her hand.  He catches her fingers and holds them on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Severus murmurs.  Hecate bends to kiss his temple, leaves her face beside his, the dampness from his hair wetting her own.  She breathes the clean scent of him, melded with her carefully selected rejuvenating ingredients. 

“It isn’t the violence, Hecate.  Although the violence is escalating.”  He says, his words unsolicited, but anticipating her thoughts.  “Rather that the risk is escalating.  And the possible consequences.”  Hecate wishes her dress didn’t have long sleeves so she could trail her hand down his chest below the water.  She dips it as far as she dares before she soaks herself, fingers dipping beneath the surface to caress more of his skin. 

“We have always been aware of the risks, my love.”  Hecate murmurs against his cheek. 

“They are becoming more tangible.”  Severus will never admit that perhaps Pippa’s words from earlier in the week are contributing to his tension, have brought to the fore his anxiety about the danger he puts both himself and the woman he loves in. 

“Severus, you need to stop.”  She whispers.  It’s as if she’s read his mind, read all the doubt in him, the anxiety over their situation.  She knows him well enough to know that he will not choose his own happiness over the fate of their world, as she would not.  She dips her head lower to kiss his cheek.  “And you need sleep.”  She is correct, of course.  It’s been days since he slept more than an hour or three, since he had the comfort of a bed, let alone the woman he loves in his arms. 

Severus obliges his wife, dries himself and slips into bed beside her.  Severus is comforted enough by his wife’s cool skin against his that for the night he forgets there will be worse days in this war, and there are worse assignments in the cards for him.  Severus sinks into the present moment, and then a deep sleep as gratefully as he did into the bath Hecate drew earlier.   

Hecate spends much of the night gazing at the ceiling, unable to escape reality the way her husband has managed tonight.  Severus has fallen asleep with his head on her chest tonight, his body half covering hers, compressing her with his welcome weight.  She strokes his hair rhythmically, her breathing falling into easy synchronisation with his. 

It’s not that his manner on arriving home shocked her, nor that the reality of their situation has only just hit her.  No, Hecate is well aware of the damage Severus’ chosen path has done and will continue to do to him.  Hecate is at peace with the life she has chosen, since this life is the only one she can share with him.  Hecate is simply trying to commit every detail of this moment to her memory.  She is sure she will need a clear recollection of a true moment of calm between them to cling onto in the all-too-near future.  She tries not to wonder if she will have the luxury of sleeping with him in her arms again tomorrow.  


	7. The Crushing Weight of Spilled Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus wants to vomit, wants to vomit so forcefully that his organs are expelled from his body. He wants to turn inside out, have his skeleton clatter to the stone and his blood trickle between the cracks in the wooden floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's that time of the week. 
> 
> Set during Half-Blood Prince. Spoilers for Half-Blood Prince. Enjoy! xx

Severus can’t tell if what he feels the moment after his killing curse has struck Albus Dumbledore is his soul actually tearing in half, or simply the overwhelming pain naturally caused by ending the life of a man who has always protected him, a man who matters to him profoundly. 

Either way, it is debilitating.  Severus wants to vomit, wants to vomit so forcefully that his organs are expelled from his body.  He wants to turn inside out, have his skeleton clatter to the stone and his blood trickle between the cracks in the wooden floor.  Severus Snape wants to inhabit a reality where the most important task of his life has not been to kill a man who has watched over him like a father, even when Severus resented such paternal influence. 

But the world, as Severus is so innately aware, is not fair.  Today’s events are simply the most recent in a long list of happenings that bear this fact out.  He storms out of the Hogwarts castle flanked by Death Eaters, by his counterfeit colleagues.  Bellatrix wreaks as much havoc as she can on the way to their temporary headquarters, and he thinks idly that in another time, these antics would have almost amused him.  Now, Severus is consumed by trying to calculate when he’ll be able to extricate himself.  He won’t be able to do so for long, lest he give the game away, but there will be a period of time when he is able to flee this scene, will drop his guard, his metaphorical mask, and be able to process what he has done, if only for a short while. 

 

The opportunity comes when Bellatrix is summoned by the Dark Lord - it has always been Bella who monitored him with the most care, always Bella who has been most dedicated to carrying out her master’s will, defending him in any way possible.  Severus manages to excuse himself from the others, manages to convince them that he has other work to do, time consuming work, and he steps out of the safe house and disapparates. 

 

Hecate Hardbroom is sitting in their bedroom removing the pins from her bun when Severus appears beside her with a faint pop.  She does not start, although she’s not expected him to return tonight.

He is as close as Severus Snape ever gets to unkempt - his sleeves unbuttoned, his nails ragged. 

There is a smudge on his cheek. 

His hair is matted.

He is trembling. 

Severus takes an unsteady step towards her, and before Hecate can rise from her seat Severus has collapsed onto his knees beside her and buried his face in her lap.  He bunches his hands in the cool satin of her nightdress, and weeps. 

Hecate knows what has happened.  She’s been privy to the entire plan, to Severus’ particular anger over it, his internal conflict.  She knows there is only one reason he could be here sobbing into her knees: he has killed Albus Dumbledore.  He has ended the life of the greatest wizard of their time.  Hecate winds her fingers firmly into his inky hair, bending at the waist to curve her torso around him, protecting him from what little of the world’s horror she can.  She kisses the back of his head while he continues to weep.  The sight of him in such a state of anguish makes tears well in her own eyes – the clear and uncompromising eyes that flash danger more than they flash warmth or tenderness.  She is all warmth and tenderness for Severus Snape, though, and her heart is aching for him so desperately she thinks, if it could, it would climb from her chest and into his to ease his pain. 

Neither moves, save for the gentle motion created by Severus gasping for breath through his sobs.  He had known the trauma killing Albus Dumbledore would cause, but he had not known quite how profoundly the blow would strike him. 

Snape adjusts his fingers so he is holding her leg, rather than just the fabric of her gown.  His fingers bite into her as he growls venomously “He asks too much, Cate.”  A ragged breath pulls into his body, she feels his ribs expand against her legs.  “He asked too much of me.” 

Hecate loosens her fingers and begins to stroke his black locks.  The part of her that is breaking to see him in this state wants to agree, wants to condemn any course of action that led to the man she loves suffering in this way.  But the other parts of Hecate can imagine Ada Cackle making a similar request of her, and knows that, like Severus, she would make the right decision for the magical world rather than the right decision for herself. 

Hecate’s voice is both softly melodious and diamond hard.  “He asked what was required of you, Severus.” 

The professor in her arms does not respond, but, with conscious effort, his breath becomes slightly more even.  Hecate runs her stiletto point nails softly over his scalp, the nape of his neck, his cloaked back.  Hecate bends again and rests her face against the back of his head, screwing her eyes closed and wishing to minimise his pain even slightly.  She feels Severus shift against her, and rises to allow him to change position. 

Upright once more, Severus’ reddened eyes bore into hers.  His tearstained face is twisted with a new determination - determination to push all of this aside and keep going, because that’s all he can do.  It’s the only way he’ll survive.  And even in this state, Severus Snape wants to survive.  He wants a life after this war with the woman he loves, however unlikely he thinks that future may be.

He pulls another pin from her still bound hair and sets it gently on the dressing table.  Hecate, taking the hint, waves her hand and transfers all the remaining pins holding her signature bun in place to lie beside the one Severus has removed.  Her hair flows down her back, shining black waves against black satin.  Severus’ gaze has become harder, and she reaches for him gently, hoping to turn him back to flesh and bone from this cool metal version of himself.  He is all fight and flight tonight, though, and were she not aware of the circumstances, she would be alarmed by this reaction in a man so undeniably controlled as Severus Snape.

Severus takes her hand and pulls her gently to her feet, his eyes not leaving hers.  He brings her mouth to his, his hands threaded in her long hair, holding the back of her head to keep her close to him.  He is hungry for the taste of her, hungry for the escape she promises.  As Hecate’s hands travel over him, she senses the damage to him, feels how battle-worn he is.  Her palms tingle as she feels the fissure in his chest - the tear in his soul.  It makes her eyes well with tears once more.  _My poor half-blood Prince_ , she thinks, trying to fathom what he’s been through, trying not to wonder what will become of them as the world rips itself apart. 

Hecate knows it is not her place to cry tonight.  She knows that there were always going to be sacrifices in what is now sure to become a war.  But the reality of it hits her harder than she could have anticipated.  The damage that has been caused to a soul already so damaged, one she knows to be so profoundly beautiful, is the first thing that has genuinely overwhelmed her in many moons.

Tears fall quietly down her cheeks as Severus buries his head in the curve of her neck.  Hecate turns her head, inhales his hair.  She whispers into it, “I’m sorry, my love.  I am so, _so_ sorry.” 

Severus is holding her too tightly, her ribs are starting to burn from the effort of forcing air into them.  But she doesn’t complain.  She instead tries to gently direct him towards the bed.  Sleep is the only thing she can think of that will even slightly assist him at this point. 

The wizard obliges his wife’s silent directive, folding onto the bed and pulling her down with him.  He will continue to cling to her through the night, until the realisation hits his sleeping mind that his presence will be missed by the Death Eaters, and he stirs with a start. 

He had expected to find Hecate asleep, but her brown eyes are bright in the darkness, studying his sleeping face through what little light is filtering into the room.  Severus’ hand is already clasped tightly around hers from his slumber, and he brings her knuckles to his lips.  He is staring at them when he says “I must take my leave, Cate.  Bellatrix will no doubt note my absence.” 

Hecate nods in the dark.  “I understand.”  Severus has already stood, donned his cloak, and Hecate makes to rise too, but Severus sits on the bed beside her and strokes her arm softly, telling her without words not to move. 

He bends and presses the kind of kiss to her lips that would easily pass for a final goodbye.  It frightens her.

He makes to leave, but she catches his hand. 

“Severus.”  She says in her best, mid-level dangerous Deputy Headmistress voice.  She turns her fingers in the air and the lamps by the bed flicker into gentle life.  He halts and turns back to face her.  A part of Severus Snape that he pretends doesn’t exist is afraid that if he looks at her too long, runs his eyes over the ocean of black hair around her alabaster face, over the thin but firm loveliness that is Hecate Alectrona Hardbroom, he will not be able to find the strength to leave her.  “Come back to me.”

Severus drops a kiss to her lips now that no longer feels like an unsaid goodbye; rather a promise of return. 

The moment before he disapparates in her arms, Severus whispers against her lips “Always.”


	8. The Curse of Disseverment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Severus.” She whispers again, and he realises he has vanished from her quite accidentally. His eyes focus and take her in again. His fearsome and beautiful bride, named for a goddess with power over life and death. She has never seemed more like her namesake than right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm really sorry this chapter is a bit angsty - but there are some happy times in the next two, I promise! And I have a happier fic for these two ready for when this one is over. 
> 
> Also, early on I said I'd tried to make this series as canon-compliant as possible, but TWW kinda (TOTALLY) changed the rules on me last week. Never mind, we'll jolly on with the show! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy xx

When Severus returns to the cottage, he is haggard; thin and drawn looking.  His hair is tangled, the hem of his robes caked in still-wet mud.  His cuffs are undone.  The pouches under his eyes are deep and dark.

Hecate is completely prepared for the state of him, given he’s been gone for five and a half days.  But she had not been prepared for him coming in through the front door.  Why has he not apparated? 

Normally Hecate would move towards him, her short but fluid steps carrying her across the bluestone floor to his lips.  Tonight, something in his manner keeps her still.  He looks as if he wants nothing more than to sink into an armchair before the fire with his wife curled at his side, but every ounce of him is holding himself upright, unreadable.  His wand is still clutched in his right hand, poised for defence.  Hecate has been prepared for this day ever since Severus’ extracurricular activities with the Dark Lord began.  Searching his eyes confirms her conclusion, no matter how fiercely he has tried to keep his emotions out of them. 

“We have to leave?”  She says it so calmly it is almost a statement rather than a question.  Severus does not answer, but he deflates slightly.  He’s been braced for this moment his entire journey home, and faced with the reality of it he can’t be quite as firm as he’d like. 

She fills his silence.  “You want me to leave without you.”

Severus barely manages to hold her gaze.  “...Somewhere I won’t be able to guess.”

She feels as if he’s thrown a bucket of cold water over her.  Hecate has always expected that at some point they would need to find somewhere safer than this to live, somewhere new where they have no history.  She had not expected it to be without him.  

“ _No_.”  The word is definitive, and a normal person would be far too scared to argue with her.  Severus holds his façade of control, of unwavering commitment to his course of action.  A person who knows him less well would believe it, but unfortunately for him, no one in the wide world knows him better than Hecate Hardbroom. 

“Hecate...”  He implores, gripping his wand more tightly, trying to steady himself.  The effort of it makes black sparks shoot out the ebony wand’s end. 

“ _Severus_.”  She retorts, clipping his name chidingly.  He is too busy keeping his own armour on to notice her shoulders softening slightly the moment before she steps towards him to touch his cheek.  Her fingertips meet his skin with more tenderness than most people experience in a lifetime, and Severus doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it.  “Severus.”  His name tumbles from her lips once more, surfing on a breath that breaks over his cold skin. 

“Were you not paying attention to what I said to Pippa?  I did not marry you to run from you when things became difficult.” 

Severus covers her hand with his, pressing her palm to his cheek and savouring contact that he may not feel again.  “And I did not marry you for you to die on my account.” 

It’s early on, but Hecate has the very real sense that she is losing this fight. 

“We can find somewhere - ”  Hecate begins, her eyes softening.  She is hoping for some middle ground, perhaps visitation rights at least. 

“- They will torture me, Hecate.”  He says in his quiet but definitive way.  “I may - I may not be able to - ”  Severus breaks off weakly, squeezing his eyes shut. 

The ever disciplined Severus Snape takes no pleasure in telling the woman he loves what he may be willing to give up to keep her alive.  That the Order might fall because of what he could reveal.  That under the right kind of torture, the right kind of mind control, he isn’t sure he can keep from revealing her existence, her position in his life.  That his knowing where she is will put her at risk.  As soon as someone becomes aware of her, of how far he would go to protect her, she becomes the best method of control over him, the best leverage.  If someone - Bellatrix, say, or Dolohov, or Macnair, or any of the other beasts with whom he currently hunts threatened her, Severus cannot guarantee there would be anything he held dear enough to let her be harmed.  Not the wide world itself.  Severus can live with Death Eaters, with fascism, with tyranny.  Severus isn’t sure he can live in a world without Hecate Hardbroom anymore. 

He can’t bear the idea of someone using legillimency on him, walking through all his dearest and most precious memories and using them to hunt her, track her, devise specific and brutal methods of torture for her.  Ones they would make him watch. 

“Severus.”  She whispers again, and he realises he has vanished from her quite accidentally.  His eyes focus and take her in again.  His fearsome and beautiful bride, named for a goddess with power over life and death.  She has never seemed more like her namesake than right now. 

Severus brings his fingers to her jaw, cradling her face in his hand.  She is badly losing by now, and all Severus can think is how much he fears losing her.  “How long” she swallows, hard, willing control to return to her, “do we have?” 

“As little time as possible.”  He says, staring fixedly at her eyebrows so he doesn’t have to meet her gaze. 

Hecate nods, looking off into the middle distance beside him, trying to work through the events of the last ten minutes.  For years now they’ve come as a package, and come in such a well-functioning package that Hecate is certain they should have been bundled together for many, many more years than they have.  Now there’s a very real risk she will never see him again.  She hasn’t noticed herself repositioning her hands to grip his biceps.  Her stiletto point black nails are biting into him even through his thick robes.

He bends his elbows to place his hands on her slim waist and rests his cheek softly against the side of her head.  Her hair is so familiar against his cheek, and he can’t help but wonder when, if ever, he’ll feel its silken lengths fall across his face and chest, or feel her fall asleep against him while he runs his fingers through them. 

“I have spent so long without you already.”  Hecate says softly. 

“I have spent longer without you.”  He says, progressively losing feeling in his arms with the force of her grip.  He nuzzles softly against the side of her head.  He breathes her in, the sharp, clean scent of her.  He may never smell it again after tonight.  “This is the only way I can keep you safe.”

Hecate withdraws slightly from his grasp.  “Let me join you.”  She says softly but surely.  Her eyes bore into his, and the idea turns over in his head.  She could play the part of a Death Eater, of course.  She’s firm and exacting, with an instinct for cruelty when the mood is upon her.  She looks the part. 

Something in him shifts as the reality sets in.  She would be in terrible danger - more danger than he places himself in, given their connection.  He turns his mind back to the lengths he took to erase public knowledge of their relationship when the Dark Lord began to regain his strength, altering the memories of his students and every witch and wizard he could recall observing them on their rare public appearances.  He imagines her committing the crimes he must commit to maintain his cover, the stain that would bloom across her soul from torturing people as he must.  He imagines her receiving the dark mark, facing the Dark Lord.  He imagines her arm burning as his does whenever his sham master calls Severus to do his terrible bidding.  Imagines Bellatrix’s wrath if another woman was of any value to the Dark Lord.  He traces her arm softly with his fingertips, imagining the mark there on her pale skin.  As much as he longs to have her by his side, to have her in reach, to delay their untimely separation, Severus will not allow himself to endanger her any more than he already has. 

“I cannot subject you to that much danger.”

He watches her hackles rise slightly, sensing a challenge to her autonomy.  “But I can.” 

“You will create risk, not remove it.” 

“Are you questioning my - ”

Severus cuts her off before she can work herself into the full hurricane force of her rage, his hand caressing her face again.  He makes his point only moments before she was about to bat his touch away.  “I am casting no aspersions on your abilities, Hecate.  You are the most powerful and precise witch I know.  But quite aside from that, you are the woman I love.  There is no place for affection in a crowd of Death Eaters.” 

“The Lestranges - ” 

He halts her protest once again.  “Bellatrix loves no one other than the Dark Lord and Rodolphus is a pawn Voldemort will sacrifice as soon as he ceases to be useful.” 

She takes a breath, letting the meaning of his words make their impression on her.  “And that will be how he views me.”  She says softly.  Severus does not move, barely breathes, terrified that any further intervention from him will change her mind again.  “A device to control you.  You will be in danger where Bellatrix is not.  Because of me.”

“Not because of you.  Because I love you.”  He says softly. 

“When must...” she swallows, changing tack.  “Is it safe to spend a final night in our home?” 

“I believe every minute that passes with us together causes us considerable danger.”  Severus drawls calmly, his fingers still resting softly on her face, “However, I believe it is a reasonable risk to take.” 

Hecate closes the little distance between them, resting her body against his.  His ribs are bruised, and he’s not had time to heal them, but he masters himself and does not flinch at the firm press of her palm against them. 

Severus is not granting her wish so much as his own by agreeing to stay here tonight.  Every night they spend apart, with him conducting some task for the Dark Lord, without fail he dreams of coming home, finding her body, sprawled on the floor, holding her to him and weeping.  Lily all over again, but different.  Worse, in a way.  Lily had represented a lost opportunity, a life that could have been.  Holding Hecate’s body in his arms, even in his nightmares, Severus feels not only the weight of losing his love, but the weight of losing his entire future.  A future that is guaranteed to them, if they can only stay alive long enough to reach it.

Severus bends his head and kisses her, deeply and thoroughly, a considered recommitting of her mouth to his memory.  Hecate seems to sense this, sense the methodical way his mouth is working against hers, like he’s studying her for an exam.  She breaks the kiss, passing the pad of her thumb over his lips.  “Severus.  My love.”  She brushes her fingers through his tangled black hair tenderly, her pointed nails teasing his skin.  “I will find you after the war.”  Her dark eyes bore into his, trying to impress upon him the extent of her belief in this promise. 

His lip curls softly, a patient smile tinged with sadness.  Hecate Hardbroom is in no way naive, but Severus has seen too much of Voldemort’s wrath, and has been much too close to receiving it, to have any illusion of surviving this battle.  Severus doesn’t see any point in telling her this, however.  He cannot see the future, so spending his last night with his wife arguing over it seems counter-productive.  Severus dips his mouth to kiss her again.  He does not expect he will ever be able to touch her again after tonight, so he intends to make the most of every detail of her. 

 

Severus knows her better than to vanish in the small hours of the morning without saying a proper farewell.  He has no intention of leaving her hating him.  He wakes her with a series of lingering kisses to her bare shoulder.  His mind plays him highlights of the night before, the precise way they had made love.  The sensations of her body around his.  The feeling of her warm skin against his chest as she slept.  When sleep loosens its grip on her and Hecate blinks up at him with heavy dark brown eyes.

“Is it time?”  She asks sleepily.  Severus tries to burn the image of her into his memory, her long black hair wild and tangled around her head on the silvery grey pillow.  The way her pale skin glows softly in the dim morning light.  Severus, fully dressed, bends and nuzzles softly against her cheek.  Hecate frees her arms from the bedclothes and curls them around her husband’s shoulders, her fingers taking up their normal place in his hair.  Severus rests his forehead against hers and says “I love you.  I will love you regardless of what happens.  In a way that is inalienable.” 

Hecate’s eyes slip closed, the tenderness of his words is offset by the painful finality of them.  “I love you, too.  I will love you no matter what happens.”  She meets his gaze again.  “And I will love you no matter what Voldemort requires you to do.” 

Severus touches her face reverently.  Her words mean more to him than she could know. 

“I will send you messages through the Order whenever I am able.” 

“Thank you, my love.”  She shifts beneath him, sitting up slightly.  Her hands move to caress his face.  “Please do not take any unnecessary risks, Severus.” 

He pecks her lips, trying to assure her.  “I promise I shall do nothing that diminishes the likelihood of my returning to you.”  Severus takes one of her hands from his face and kisses her palm, silently casting a protection charm over his wife.  He hopes the force of his love enhances the spell sufficiently to protect her from whatever dangers she will face without him. 

“Do not fall in love with Bellatrix Lestrange in my absence.”  Hecate commands in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

Severus’ lip ticks in affectionate amusement.  “On the condition that you do not allow Pippa to introduce you to any potential suitors in mine.” 

“I accept your terms.”  Hecate purrs wryly, still pushing back the reality that he will soon be leaving her. 

The couple shares another kiss, languid but tinged with anxiety.  When they part, Severus mumbles “Farewell, my love.”

“Be safe, my darling.”  Severus nods, rises from the bed without kissing her again, and walks from the only happy home he has ever known.  Severus thinks the cruciatus curse would be a less painful kind of torture. 


	9. The Unparalleled Power of Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tries not to pounce on the Daily Prophet more eagerly than the other witching dailies when they arrive in the morning, but of course this is one of only two way she may hear if her husband is alive or dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, dear readers! I hope you enjoy this chapter, including a brief cameo from pre-frog life Algie.

Hecate obeys Severus’ request to leave their home, casting every protective and cloaking spell upon the cottage that she knows, shielding it from the gaze of anyone but those who have already entered it.  She moves somewhere he won’t guess – somewhere utterly inconvenient to her life, but she continues her work at Cackle’s, which is, of course, the first place any sensible person would search for her.  Hecate throws herself into work more ferociously than ever, eliciting a new level of terror from her students, but the distraction is superficial at best.  She tries not to pounce on the Daily Prophet more eagerly than the other witching dailies when they arrive in the morning, but of course this is one of only two way she may hear if her husband is alive or dead, so her self-control is prone to failure.  One morning not long after Severus’ departure, in a show of absolute restraint, she allows Miss Bat to read the Prophet first, although her fingers all but tremble with the anticipation. 

“Oh, these are dark days.”  Gwynne mutters under her breath as she takes in the front cover.

“More killings?”  Hecate asks, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. 

“Some, always some.”  Gwynne sighs, and Algernon Rowan-Webb pats her hand softly, supportively.  Hecate feels a pang of loss for that kind of innocuous intimacy, for the enormity of feeling that can be contained in so small a gesture.  “No, I was huffing about that Severus Snape taking over as Headmaster of Hogwarts after what he did to poor Albus.  The lack of loyalty.  Murdering your own greatest defender...”  Hecate feels Ada’s eyes upon her, and meets them with a perfectly blank face.  Algernon nods his agreement at Gwynne's side. 

Gwynne turns her attention back to the newspaper in front of her, and mutters, “Although he does look very handsome in his official photograph.”  Algernon removes his hand from Gwynne’s huffily, but the older witch turns the paper so the rest of the table can see.  Hecate tips her head as her eyes drink in the fine details of the man she loves, the buttons of the coat she’s slid from his body so many times, the hair that falls around his face, which she’s combed her fingers through more times than she can count.  Her eyes linger on his lips, and Hecate is briefly transported back to the many things those lips can do.  “Yes, I suppose he does, by an average person’s measure...”  Hecate turns her attention to the daily she’s reading to hide the ghost of a smirk playing about her lips.  Algernon spends the rest of breakfast pointedly not speaking to his other half.  

 

Minerva McGonagall has become the custodian of their secrets after Albus’ death.  Hecate rather appreciates her brusque, no-nonsense Scottishness after Albus’ insistence that she do practical things like dealing with her emotions.  One day, Hecate is sitting at her desk marking a less-awful-than-usual batch of essays on truth serums, when a message from Minerva flies down her fireplace, clutched by an owl.  Hecate’s blood turns to ice, as it always does when Minerva makes contact.  Any day could be the day the Scottish witch is seeking Hecate out to break the news the younger witch has been dreading for many moons now. 

Minerva’s message reads simply _‘Do you have five minutes?’_

Hecate, with a furrowed brow, responds in the affirmative, and soon Minerva is stepping out of Hecate’s unlit fireplace.  The speed of her arrival implies the owl didn’t have far to travel – Minerva must have been waiting nearby. 

Hecate cannot contain herself.  The words “Is he – ?” are out of her mouth before Minerva can even offer a greeting. 

“He is as well as he can be, given the situation he’s in.”  Minerva says.  Hecate’s anxiety loosens a notch and her shoulders soften slightly; Minerva notes the visible exhalation of a shallow breath, the long and deliberate inhalation that follows it.  “He asked me to deliver a message to you.  I thought it best to move the message on as quickly as possible.” 

“You’ve seen him today?”  Hecate asks, dark brown eyes widening.  She has heard through the network of allies that Severus has been absent from Hogwarts for the past week, undertaking some dangerous business for Voldemort.  Minerva can read the anxiety in the otherwise perennially composed Hecate Hardbroom, the way her skin prickles to know something – anything – about the state of her husband.  Minerva likes Severus – much of the time, tolerates him the rest of the time – but she still finds the idea of an intelligent, flesh and blood woman falling in love with him slightly bewildering. 

“Early this morning.”  Minerva confirms, sitting in the chair across from Hecate.  The younger witch’s eyes continue to bore into hers.  Minerva hands over a tiny scroll, about the length of her index finger, tied with black twine.  Hecate studies the object, seeking some kind of clue about his whereabouts. 

Hecate looks up again, meeting Minerva’s grey-blue eyes.  “How was he?” 

Minerva knows better than to sugar coat things for Hecate Hardbroom.  “Exhausted.  Drawn.”  Hecate had expected this.  “He misses you very much.” 

“Did he say – ”

“No, Hecate.  But the desolation rolls off him like a sickness.”  Hecate nods, tips her chin towards the window in her office through which irritable owls used to deliver dinner invitations, and she is all too aware of the shard of ice in her heart that began to form the moment he left her.  That crisp Tuesday morning when all the rights and privileges of her marriage were withdrawn from her.  At this point Hecate would give serious consideration to offering a limb for time with the other half of her soul. 

“But he is well, Hecate.  He is as physically unscathed as anyone could have hoped.”  Hecate’s mouth ticks in a half-hearted smile. 

“I am glad.” 

“I expect there will be a meeting of the Order at Grimmauld Place some time next week.” 

“I assume you’ll let me know in the usual way.” 

“Indeed.”  Minerva rises, ready to leave as quickly as she arrived.  “I must return to Hogwarts now, Hecate.  I hope whatever words he’s asked me to deliver bring you some comfort.”

“Thank you, Minerva.  I appreciate the trouble of delivering it.” 

“It was no trouble, Hecate.”  The softness of Minerva's words disappears in a flash of green flame, and Hecate turns her attention back to the message from her husband.  This is the first written message she has received from him, and she can’t help but wonder what could be so critical to risk the interception of a written missive.  She is delicate as she unrolls the little scroll, and she finds the all too familiar spiky writing of her husband.  She stares at the words in utter bemusement.  He has written her a list of potion ingredients.  She frowns at the list trying to find some hidden meaning in it.  She wonders if, perhaps, this is a reference to the day they first met in Mr Mulpepper’s, but they had debated Gillyweed, and morning dew, and neither appears on the list.  Hecate turns the paper over, rotates it, runs her fingers above it while silently willing the paper to reveal its secrets.  After four minutes of scrutiny, Hecate realises she is missing the most basic bond between them – their passion for potions.  What she had interpreted as a shopping list is in fact a recipe.  Hecate transfers herself to her potions room, sets the glass cauldron on her desk to boil with an elegant waft of her fingers, and makes short work of gathering the required ingredients from the shelves.  Hecate tries to channel her husband while she mixes the brew, the little tricks she’s seen him employ, the ones she’s shown him that he quickly adopted.  She knows, impossibly, intuitively, that she will need to stir the potion clockwise for the date they met, counter-clockwise for the month.  She knows because she would do the same thing, and they are cut from the same cloth when it comes to their potions processes.  When nothing happens, despite her completing the potion in the only way she can imagine he would want, Hecate realises that the little note from her husband is still wound tightly around one of her fingers.  She looks at it, unwilling to surrender any tiny piece of her husband at this point in time.  Aware that she has no choice, she tosses the scroll into the cauldron and sure enough, magic happens.  A plume of fuchsia smoke rises from the cauldron, and within it deep purple words form. 

_Cate,_

_Do not attempt to reply to this message.  I simply felt the need to confide in you.  Today I was tasked with the execution of a member of my year level at Hogwarts.  I found the task particularly unpalatable in a way I would not during the last war.  I believe I may be softening in my advancing years.  I believe you might be owed some of the credit for this.  Every fibre of me misses you.  Be safe for me, and remember that I love you.  Yours eternally, S._

Hecate runs her eyes over his words until she has them committed to memory, until she can almost feel the cool skin of his cheek under her fingertips.  Hecate does not notice that she has begun to cry, that her fingers are trembling with the absence of him.  After what must be twenty minutes standing in silence before her husband’s missive, Hecate hears a creak from the rusted hinge of the potions laboratory and waves her hand through the air to vanish his words.  “Goodbye, my darling.”  She whispers into the patch of air his words had filled.  Soon the room is filled with the noise and clatter of her third year students rather than the words of her absent husband. 

 

* * *

 

 

Minerva is true to her word, and calls a meeting of the Order in the next week.  Hecate has heard too many stories of the trauma Sirius Black inflicted upon her husband in his teenage years to feel comfortable being in the man’s house, even after his death.  This is the thought running through her head as she sweeps her eyes over the familiar but still surprisingly grimy entrance hall of the old terrace.  Hecate’s face is still pinched with distaste when her eyes land, unexpectedly, upon her husband.  Only two other people in the Order, Minerva and Pippa, are aware of their relationship, so even though she is early and thinks the house is relatively deserted, she remains in her place.  Were he cultivated differently Severus’ expression would race between delight and guilt and longing and desire.  His face remains impassive through years of practice. 

Hecate does not cross to him, touch him, trace the jagged cut across his left cheek as she so wishes.  Instead, Hecate inclines her head almost imperceptibly towards the door to the lounge.  Severus follows her inside mutely, his fingers prickling to touch her, even though his better judgement suggests this is unwise.  They face each other, three feet apart, each scrutinising their other half carefully.  This is the first time they have been in the same room in six months. 

“I didn’t expect you to be here.”  Hecate says, maintaining her composure in a way even she finds remarkable. 

“Strictly speaking I should have left an hour ago.” 

“Did you know we were meeting?”  Hecate asks.  He correctly interprets her train of thought.

“No, I did not expect to see you.  I wouldn’t have trusted my ability to leave you again.”

Hecate softens at his words, reaches for his hand.  She understands the sentiment all too well.  She had expected that, if she found him somewhere, ran into him someplace private and safe, she would be in his arms in half a heartbeat.  Studying his face seems more important now that the moment is here.  He looks battered.  She wishes she were able to place him in a less dangerous position, protect him somehow.  When she remembers that their time alone is finite, Hecate tweaks his wrist, telling Severus without words that she wants him closer, wants the feel of his body against her and his arms around her.  Severus obliges, and the two of them melt into each other, Hecate nestling securely into the curve of his neck.  She inhales the familiar scent of him, as he does her.  Severus wishes her hair were down; he has been dreaming of running his fingers through it almost every night since they parted.  He does not want to disturb her perfect bun, so he keeps his hands to her back, her waist, her cheek.  After holding her tightly against him for two and a half long minutes, Severus tips her chin and drops his lips to hers.  Hecate moves her arms to wind around his neck, holding him as close as she is able, delighting in the sensation of his tongue teasing hers.  Hecate growls softly at his ministrations, presses herself more firmly against him.  He wouldn’t have thought it possible until she achieved it.  Severus moves his attack to the place her pulse beats most obviously through her throat.  Hecate reacts before she can think, digging her fingernails into his scalp. 

“I have missed you so much.”  She breathes against his ear.  Severus wants to bite down on her neck, but he fears the questions that would be asked of her if she walked into an Order meeting with his teeth stamped on her skin.  The couple hears the unmistakable creak of the front door opening, and they reluctantly pull away from each other.  They kiss quickly but firmly.  A kiss goodbye that is final for the moment, but not forever.  It’s a delicate balance to strike.  They are getting better at it than either ever wanted to be.  

“I love you.”  Hecate says, her eyes glued to his and her hand curved tenderly around his cheek. 

“And I love you.”  Severus pecks her cheek.  “More than I think you could ever know.”  He makes to leave, but her left hand is still gripping his robes.  He halts when he feels the resistance; finds her eyes boring into his intently when he looks back at her.  Every molecule of her is serious.

“I do.”  She whispers.  “I do know.”  Severus returns to her lips, even though he had promised himself the previous kiss would end the intimacy of the evening. 

“I shall see you soon.”  She whispers against his lips. 

“As soon as possible.”  Her husband answers before escaping from number twelve Grimmauld place undetected.  


	10. The Undocumented Risks of Protection Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took certain members of the Order of the Phoenix quite some time to warm to Hecate Hardboom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! This chapter might be my favourite. It gets a bit mature. I wasn't sure if I should include it, so massive thanks as always to Becs/Crowded Angels for helping me sort this one through in my head.

It took certain members of the Order of the Phoenix quite some time to warm to Hecate Hardboom.  Her reputation for being an unyielding disciplinarian proceeded her unfavourably.  While initially no one in the Order but Albus Dumbledore knew of her connection to Severus Snape, she has always been heavily influenced by his opinions of the various members of the group.  She is suspicious of Remus Lupin, barely contained her disdain towards Sirius Black while he was alive.  She rather liked Minerva McGonagall right from the start, although this was a fact she held tightly, unwilling to show any alliance to particular members.  Albus had known her well enough that he could have smoothed her path, but Albus was notably absent from almost every meeting they had in the period between her joining and his death.  He attended her first meeting, provided the introductions.  In the subsequent two meetings she had found herself wishing Albus was there to provide some kind of moral support, in the quiet way he always managed.  She quickly learnt not to rely on his presence.  

Hecate found her feet, eventually.  Slotted into the proceedings, found her place in the resistance.  The Hogwarts alumni were, and often still are, both bemused and envious of her alternate school of magic, particularly of her ability to transform into another’s appearance without the rigmarole and unpleasantness of a Polyjuice potion.  There is never genuine affection between all the members of the Order, but there is a camaraderie that develops between them through their common goal.  While, in the beginning, the Hogwarts alum were reluctant to let her do anything that required trust between the members, now she is included routinely in their dangerous missions, and the fact that she has no public alliance to Dumbledore is a great asset to them. 

Tonight Hecate and Kingsley Shacklebolt are disguised and in pursuit of Fenrir Greyback.  The werewolf has been on what Severus has told her Greyback refers to as a 'recruitment drive' – a targeted series of attacks on children of blood traitors, who are then indoctrinated into Voldemort’s ways.  Hecate has never looked less remarkable, with a mousy brown bob, flat hazel eyes, and olive skin.  She’s avoiding any reflective surface, lest she react visibly to her new countenance.  Kingsley is disguised as a short, middle-aged white man.  He is inconspicuous in every way, and almost as uncomfortable as Hecate is with walking the world in an unimpressive skin. 

f

The pair of them wander along, play acting a casual conversation while they quietly discuss strategy.  Greyback is targeting three siblings at Amulet’s Academy.  Hecate and Kingsley have reached the parkland near the bounds of the Academy, picking their way through the trees and approaching the magnificent hedge that surrounds the expansive Georgian mansion.  They are trying to assess the site, sorting out the entrances and weak points in the perimeter of the school.  Having satisfied themselves that there are only two places, aside from the main entrance, which is far too obvious, for Greyback to enter the school, Hecate and Kingsley separate, secreting themselves in the trees to observe the comings and goings.  Hecate is perpetually vigilant, like a cat waiting for a mouse to emerge from its hole.  She does not notice the change in the air, even in her state of heightened alertness.  She does not know that their plans have been sniffed out by the Death Eaters, without Severus discovering the Death Eaters’ plans. 

Hecate first becomes aware that they’ve been intercepted when the cruciatus curse hits her in the back.  She cries out in pain, before summoning all her strength and shaking off the curse.  A stunning spell crashes into her right side, making pain shoot through her ribcage.  Hecate manages to raise a protective spell around herself a moment too late to prevent an incisiorus curse colliding with her body.  There are spells coming at her from three angles, but she can’t be certain there aren’t more Death Eaters in the trees.  She throws a confounding charm at her attackers, and stumbles out of sight as her transformation spell fails, revealing the body she ordinarily inhabits.  She is too weak to hold another form and keep her organs functioning. 

Behind a majestic oak, Hecate is clutching her ribs, crouching in pain, trying to breathe, trying to formulate a plan of action to get herself back into a fit state to continue on her mission, to find Kingsley.  But she cannot summon any useful ideas, and the pain in her ribs is becoming more than even she can handle.  Every breath feels like she is warring with herself for oxygen.  She fears she is losing to the pain.  She can't calculate how much blood she is losing.  

The normally steely Hecate Hardbroom is, if she’s honest about it, only moments from fainting.  What seems like the exact second she acknowledges this fact, Hecate feels a hand wrap around the hip below her aching ribs, another curl itself around her own free one, which is reaching in front of her in the hope of softening her landing when she soon crashes forward into the ground. 

A voice she knows better than her own breathes “Cate,” in her ear.  She had known it was him already from the feeling of his hands on her.  There is no one in the world who has ever touched her with such reverence.  He sounds stressed, tense.  She does not usually hear such clear anxiety in his tone.  Just as her vision is beginning to narrow, Hecate feels as if she is being forced through a very tight rubber tube, as Severus apparates them away from the danger.

 

They are suddenly back at their cottage, the first time either of them has set foot in it for months on end.  Severus hadn’t hesitated a moment before choosing this as their destination.  It is too dangerous for him to be seen openly at Grimmauld Place now, and much too dangerous for her to be seen with him. 

Half holding Hecate in one arm, Severus waves his wand and clears the table in their kitchen, laying her semi-conscious form on it. 

Her breathing is becoming shallower.  Touching her torso softly, Severus notices, for the first time, a shining wet patch blooming over her intricate brocade dress.  He silently cures the garment for concealing her bleeding.  He could have stopped it outside Amulet’s. 

He murmurs her name without thinking, as if about to ask where else she’s hurt, what spells were cast against her.  Instead he waves his wand over her rapidly failing body and murmurs a detection incantation to diagnose her injuries.  She has a perforated spleen, internal bleeding, and three broken ribs on top of the flesh wound. 

He has healed worse injuries before.  He has never had to do so for the woman he loves.  He is afraid his emotions will render him incapable of the task.  She bites back a cry of pain, and Severus collects himself forcefully.  Knitting bones together is routine.  The spleen is not beyond repair.  He will manage this for both their sake. 

She murmurs his name, and he looks up from her injuries to her face - so familiar but etched with such unfamiliar anguish.  There is terror in her eyes.  It is second only to his own. 

Severus curves his left hand around her searching fingers, squeezing reassuringly, but remains focussed on his task.  She looks as if she is about to offer him some kind of parting words, and he can’t let her.  He deals with her flesh-wound first, stemming the bleeding and watching the dark liquid that fuels his wife recede from her dress back to where it belongs.  He then turns his attention to her spleen, murmuring a healing spell and beseeching a force he could not name if asked to help him save her.  He cannot be responsible for losing her.  She is too important.  She sucks in a deep breath, then winces as her ribs protest at her lungs’ expansion.  His fingers tighten around hers anxiously, but he knows from the colour returning to her face that his spell is working, that she is mending.  He completes his spell, and analyses her expression carefully.  Finding her improved, Severus turns his attention to knitting the bones of her ribs.  They knit quickly and easily, and when Severus turns back to his wife, he finds her face free from pain for the first time this evening.  She looks exhausted, yes, but when she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, he no longer expects her to offer him a final goodbye.  He performs the diagnostic spell again, and is relieved to find her satisfactorily healed.  Her lips quirk weakly, the shadow of a reassuring smile.  It is her turn to tighten her fingers around his. 

“Are you in pain, my love?”  He asks her gently.  Her answer will inform how he transports her to bed. 

“No.”  She says with a miniscule shake of her head.  Severus breathes a sigh of relief, and thanks the unnamed higher power.  Severus runs his free hand over her forehead, pushing back the tendrils of hair that have escaped from their normally regimented bun.  The kiss he places on her forehead is emphatic. 

With one clean movement, Severus draws her into his arms and carries her into the bedroom they once shared every night, laying her gently on the bed.  Severus is flooded with happy memories of the two of them in this room, this house.  Severus longs for the days he woke with her in his arms each morning, drowning in the smell and feel of her against him.  He longs for lazy mornings of her propped up over his chest debating the issues of the day with him, her long curls tumbling over both of them.  

“You need rest.”  He says definitively, hand cupping her cheek.

“I won’t break, Severus.”  She says.  He almost flinches at the memory of the first time she said those words to him, the first night they spent together, her body beneath his and her mouth leaving a trail of kisses over his neck and jaw.  He shakes his head internally at how complicated life seemed in the early days of their courtship, when falling in love seemed highest risk thing he would ever do.  Their life has rarely been so simple since then. 

“You very nearly did.”  He counters, removing her boots with a wave of his wand and drawing the bedclothes over her.  

He summons a sleeping draught and offers a portion of it to his wife.  “Severus, I do not need – ”

“ _Hecate_.”  He chides.  His gaze is firm and his tone professorial.  Severus takes the responsibility of having a wife rather seriously.  His need to care for her has become a fundamental building block within him. 

He softens after a moment.  “I am only proposing a few hours of rest, Hecate.  It will do you good.”  Hecate’s mouth purses grudgingly, but she takes the little glass Severus has offered to her and drinks it. 

“Thank you.”  Murmurs the perennially strict potions master in a tone so soft his students might think Hell had frozen over.  He strokes her face again, her hair.  The tension in his chest loosens a little as she drifts to sleep.  Severus is taken by her deep and even breathing, once so familiar to him and now such a luxury to witness.  One of his hands settles on her ribs, taking comfort in the soft expansion and contraction of them.  Severus swipes angrily at a tear that has escaped his eye, trying to calm his own breathing, trying to return his body to its normal resting state.  But the anxiety he feels at having almost lost her is still threatening to overwhelm him.  Severus watches her for two hours, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed they once shared, his wife’s hand clasped softly in his own, before he decides to make tea and see if there is any food left in the cottage.  He expects she will be hungry when she wakes. 

 

 

Hours later, when she has fully recovered from her injuries and the sleeping draught releases her back to the waking world, Hecate is not awash with relief or affection, or even hunger, as Severus would have expected.  In fact, once she’s conscious again, Hecate is nothing short of enraged. 

“Why in Merlin’s name would you risk exposure like that?”  Hecate snaps at him furiously upon entering the kitchen. 

Her eyes are filled with storms, and Severus wants to fight back, or to relent, to do anything other than what he chooses, in the end.  Which is tell her the truth. 

“A relatively simple reason.  I was terrified.” 

“How – how could you even have known I was…?”  She demands, eyes boring into his unblinkingly. 

Severus has expected this question.  He has been weighing up how to tell her that he once observed a spell at St Mungo’s – a medical monitoring spell, designed to alert the mediwitches and wizards to a patient’s vital signs taking dangerous turns, and their location in the hospital.  He had researched it carefully, modified its intention slightly to apply to a broader geographic area.  The most inexcusable part of the tale is that he took the opportunity to covertly apply it to her while she slept. 

“Analytica Infirmia.”  Severus says, still holding his wife’s gaze.  He understands she will be angry, but he does not regret his decision.  He does not regret anything that will allow him to protect her. 

Hecate wishes she had something in her hands, a sheaf of papers or suchlike that she could toss across the room to emphasise her anger.  She is, unfortunately, empty-handed.  Hecate is the niece of a mediwitch.  Severus has miscalculated how quickly she will piece this all together. 

She is so tight with barely-contained fury that Severus thinks she may inadvertently set something on fire.  Her voice is dangerous and low.  “You cast a spell to monitor my vital signs without my knowledge.”

“Yes.”  Severus does not flinch from the truth, and Hecate isn’t sure if this should make her more or less angry with him. 

“So you could endanger yourself and undermine the work of the Order in one fell swoop?”  Severus thinks about her body crumpling into his arms, thinks about the pain on her face, the moment she tried to offer him a final goodbye, and Severus in no way regrets any decision that leaves his wife snarling at him in their kitchen rather than being lowered slowly into the earth. 

“You know, Hecate, that my loyalty to the Order is unquestionable.  And my life is a small price to pay for yours.” 

Hecate, while admittedly a little moved by his words, is predominantly angered by them further.  She thunders at him, giving him no credit for his confession.  “Your work for the Order will be a key determinant in our success or failure in this war and you would gamble with your life for something as stupid and sentimental as – ”

“As the woman I love.”  Severus is firm with her, his anger flaring in response to her absolute dismissal of their relationship.  He has never been more wounded by her than in this moment. 

“You can’t let the world fall because of love, Severus.  You know that as well as I.” 

“I would not.  As we have discussed time and time again.”  He holds her gaze forcefully.  “I judged that the two things were not mutually exclusive and I was correct.”

“As far as you know!”  Hecate snaps.  “You could have been exposed.  You still might be!” 

“That is a risk I take every day of this assignment, Hecate.” 

Hecate has no reasonable retort for this.  “You must have faith in the Order to perform whatever repairs are required on me.  And I am perfectly capable of keeping myself alive without you, Severus.” 

“I have never doubted that, Hecate.”

“Then _why_ – ”

“I have told you why.  The idea of losing you is terrifying to me.  And I suspect you are unleashing this tirade on me for much the same reason.”  Hecate blinks, coming up short all of a sudden.  There is a sharpness to his idiosyncratic drawl that Hecate has rarely heard directed at her, and it gives her pause. 

She had thought, in her unchallenged internal monologue, that her anger stemmed simply from his undermining her by behaving as if she could not be trusted to keep herself safe.  Severus is, of course, correct.  She is angry at him for putting himself at risk to save her.  She is angry at him for making her this frightened for his safety.  She is afraid of what the consequence will be for the man she loves when he has to return to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. 

When she speaks again her tone is calmer, softer.  “It seems you are correct, Severus.” 

Severus holds her gaze and reads both her unspoken apology and her fear.  He reaches for her hand before slowly drawing her into his arms.  He never feels as centred as when he holds her.  He brings one hand to the back of her head as she buries her face in his shirt.  The smell of him washes over her, calming her more effectively than the sleeping draught did earlier.  Severus can’t find the words to tell her how profoundly he fears losing her, in the same way he will never be able to articulate precisely how much he loves her. 

Hecate can feel all this running through his body.  Without reading his mind she knows how deeply his emotions flow within him.  But for the few moments of insecurity earlier in their courtship that all seemed to centre around Lily Evans, Hecate has never doubted his love for her.  She turns her face upwards towards his, her eyes silently requesting the attention of his mouth.

He obliges her, and her lips part eagerly for him.  It has been months since she saw him at Grimmauld Place, but the period of this separation has been shorter than the last.  Their kiss increases in pace, and it takes Hecate longer than she would care to admit to realise how normal a reaction to near-death she is having.  In fact, she isn’t really sure of it until she has finished unbuttoning Severus’ shirt and has moved onto his trousers.

“ _Cate_ …”  He growls softly, pulling back to meet her gaze.  She trails her sharp nails over his cheek, his throat.  The need in her gaze makes him acutely aware of how much he has been longing for her body for the last eight and a half months.  Hecate pulls him towards her by the waistband of his trousers and draws them both back until her legs hit the kitchen table.  She summons her skirt upwards with a wafture of her fingers before Severus lifts her onto the table. 

A little cry of pleasure escapes from the back of her throat as he enters her.  She has been craving his body, craving the intimacy of joining with him like this.  He hisses softly as her nails bite into the skin of his back, urging him on.  Severus hasn’t even let himself dream of being inside her again.  He has been preparing for the worst.  The feeling of her, after all this time, is overwhelming to his senses.  He works his mouth against hers as much as possible, trying desperately to commit every sensation of her to memory.  He swallows almost every sound she makes, fancying he can feel them flow through his body and into his chest.  He feels as if he’s been torn from a delicious dessert when she moves her mouth to his neck, sucking and nipping at his skin.  When she reaches his trapezius, she sinks her teeth into his flesh.  The action is not wanton.  She wants to brand him, as he avoided doing her the last time they saw each other.  Severus groans and pulls her closer to him by her knees, sinking impossibly deeper into her.  Hecate soothes the wound diligently with her tongue, softly growls “I love you” against his stinging flesh.  Severus sucks in a sharp breath and comes apart inside her.  He uses his years of learning the secrets of her body to tease her precisely the right way and bring her with him.  

He loves the sounds she allows to escape her lips when she falls over the edge with him.  He loves the moments neither of them feels the need to be in control. 

Their hearts are racing in frantic synchronicity.  Hecate fancies that she can hear his pulse speeding through his veins.  Severus winds his arms around her and pulls her into his chest, wishing they could remain like this, wishing there was a path for them that allowed the unchecked pursuit of pleasure rather than duty.  He does not want to part from her.  He is tired of making himself do so. 

Hecate kisses her husband’s neck softly.  The faint trace of sweat leaves a salty tang on her tongue.  She trails the tip of her nose up the length of his throat. 

“I must return to Grimmauld Place.”  Hecate says softly against his jaw.  Her legs remain wound around his hips, and she is giving no indication that she will move. 

“Unless I am mistaken,” Severus murmurs, shifting his head so he can brush his lips against hers.  Hecate’s eyes narrow at his tone – the one they use whenever they are about to enter into a furious argument about the most effective method of brewing whatever potion is currently on their minds.  “If the Order is unsuccessful at recovering a missing Member within the first hour, the protocol is to reconvene at Headquarters until eight hours have elapsed.”  Severus lifts the watch that hangs between their bodies, presses the little button to open its case and studies it ostentatiously.  “It appears only six have passed.” 

Reading him perfectly, Hecate smiles, purrs the words “And what did you have in mind for the remaining hours?” 

Severus cradles her face in his large hands, kisses her thoroughly.  Hecate is expecting him to suggest they return to their bedroom.  She is not expecting him to say “Breakfast.”

Hecate scoffs.  His lip twitches almost imperceptibly, pleased by her ill-concealed disappointment. 

“I delegate full responsibility to you, darling.”  She says, pecking his lips before pushing him away and sliding off the table, making her way to the bathroom to wash. 

 

Hecate returns to him wrapped in a black silk robe, shot through with a faint silver cobweb motif.  Severus is lazily pointing his wand at a cauldron of porridge.  Hecate is surprised to see a bowl of freshly picked blackberries on the kitchen counter. 

“While you were sleeping.”  He answers her unasked question. 

“I had assumed you’d summoned them, my love.  I’m quite impressed.”  She says, running her hand tenderly down his chest and stomach, kissing the side of his neck.  Satisfied that the porridge is sufficiently cooked, Severus conducts it into bowls, waves the blackberries over the top.  They form a perfect circle.  Hecate smiles at the symmetry.

“I decided you were worth the effort.” 

They sit at their kitchen table, Hecate in her robe with her hair hanging damply down her back, and Severus in his rumpled white shirt.  It has been so long since Hecate saw him without the midnight blue coat that forms his everyday armour.  She crosses her legs and he is rewarded with the expanse of her milky flesh coming into view.  He trails his fingers lightly over her leg, and enjoys watching the little shiver that passes over her body. 

They spend thirty minutes in a state of absolute normalcy, eating an early breakfast and chattering – somehow finding normal things to chatter about.  Hecate gazes at her husband calmly and happily, succeeding for the first time in longer than she can recall to push all the impending darkness away, to live purely in this moment. 

In the course of their chatter, Severus makes an offhand quip about Alastor Moody and Hecate laughs.  Severus hasn’t heard his wife’s laughter in the best part of a year.  He will have to spend considerable effort patching up the crack in his armour that the sound has caused. 

When they have finished their food, Hecate lets their conversation reach a natural end, before sighing softly.  She rises from her place, moving around the table to kiss him tenderly.  She draws him into her arms, runs her fingers through his hair as he rests his head against her breasts.

“I have to return to Grimmauld place, Severus.”  She whispers against the top of his head.  His hands tighten around her hips against his will, but Severus forces himself to release her, to nod in agreement.

“I see no medical reason to detain you further.”  He says, rising to his feet so he feels at less of a disadvantage. 

Hecate clicks her fingers and all at once she is standing in her usual brocade dress, her hair dry and coiled into its customary bun. 

“I shall be the subject of deep suspicion for this disappearance.”  She tells him, but the smile on her lips is dangerously approaching smug. 

“Unfortunately, Cate, in this instance I am unable to provide you with an alibi.” 

She smiles in earnest now, dark eyes gazing into her husband’s darker ones.  There is a whirlpool of emotion swirling in her chest.  After all these years, she is still dizzy with her love for him. 

Severus, feeling the emotion radiating from her, drops his head and kisses her. 

“Please be safe.”  He murmurs.  “You are precious to me.”

“I would never do anything that might jeopardise my coming home to you when this ends, Severus.” 

He knows.  He already knows.  Of course he does.  “I love you.”  Severus says evenly, not losing contact with his wife’s gaze. 

“I love you, too.”  They remain where they are for an infinite moment, hands on each other’s bodies, eyes trying to read the other’s soul.  Severus is considering telling her that, one way or another, the war will soon be over.  She has transferred out of his arms and back to Grimmauld place before he has found the words.  

 

 

Unfortunately for Hecate, Alastor Moddy sights her first.  “Where in Merlin’s name have you been, girlie?”  He stomps over to her with his uneven gait.  “D’you not realise we could’ve been killed looking for yeh?”  

Hecate draws herself to her full height and gives Alastor the gale force of her glare.  “I would suggest, Alastor, that, should you value the use of your remaining leg, you refrain from using terms such as ‘girlie’ when addressing me.” 

“Forgive me for not minding my manners when you’ve put the whole Order at risk with this little disappearing act!”

Hecate walks past him, her neat, clipped strides a stark contrast to his loud, lumbering ones.  “There are procedures in place for members of the Order disappearing.”  Hecate pushes her way into the kitchen.  Minerva is sitting with a cup of tea before her, looking tight.  Of everyone in this resistance, she has the best idea of where Hecate may have found a safe pair of arms in which to recuperate.  Minerva only half looks at the pair as they enter the room, taking Hecate in cautiously.  Kingsley’s account of the incident made it seem that she would be half dead.  “I was attacked by Death Eaters.  I sought the assistance of the Cackle’s nurse to prevent my own death.  I altered her memory - which, might I add, is unnecessarily complex in your brand of magic – and returned within the required time for anything but an initial search by the Order to have occurred.  Overexaggerating the situation demeans us both.”  

The Scottish witch is now openly watching the exchange.  Hecate’s lie about Cackle’s is simple and safe.  She doubts many in the Order, but for the most paranoid, will question her. 

Minerva muses that they will likely think her returning to Cackle’s is the most natural response of any.  We are programmed to return home in moments of peril.  Hecate has done exactly that, but not to the home she is claiming.  Minerva is also weighing Alastor’s reaction.  As one of the aforementioned most paranoid members of the Order, Minerva is certain he won’t believe a word of this.  But more interestingly, Alastor is disused to people responding to him with the kind of sharp calmness Hecate turns to in these moments.  Alastor is thundering and clattering and testosterone when pushed.  Hecate is precisely aimed arrows.  Minerva has always rather liked it about her.  Alastor, conversely, is not coping. 

He sputters, fumbling for a retort, for another reason to rail against the outsider in their group.  Minerva is seeking a reason to intervene, but suddenly Kingsley pushes through the kitchen door and pulls Hecate into a hug that, had her ribs not already been healed, would be agony.  Hecate remains as stiff as a board in his arms, while the wizard babbles apologies for losing her. 

Gathering her small resource of diplomacy, Hecate lifts a hand and pats Kingsley on the back twice.  Minerva wonders if Severus could determine her motive as kindness or a desire to end the contact, because she herself cannot.  The thought makes her lip quirk ever so slightly, and she resolves to relay the moment to her rival head of house the next time she has cause to speak to him on Order business. 

After what Hecate feels must be approximately an hour, Alastor grabs Kingsley by his rich royal blue robes and shoves him out of the kitchen, barking “Stop yer simpering, Shacklebolt, we’ve got strategy to discuss.”

Hecate visibly relaxes when the two men exit the kitchen and crosses to the stove to make herself a cup of tea.  She is glad not to have anyone but her husband making physical contact with her. 

“Are you alright, Hecate?”  The Scottish witch asks her, somehow both firm and gentle. 

“Yes.”  Hecate says, turning over her shoulder to meet Minerva’s gaze.  Instinctively, Hecate is brewing enough tea for two.  Minerva's cup has long gone cold.  

“He managed to heal all your injuries, then?”

“He seems to have.”  Hecate’s voice is careful, guarded.  She sets two mugs of tea on the table before taking a seat opposite the elder witch.  In part she is paying credence to her need to spend some time at Headquarters following her absence, but mainly Hecate doesn’t feel like being on her own yet. 

Minerva senses this, and knows Hecate well enough to understand the younger witch doesn’t want a lot of chatter.  Luckily, Minerva only has one question left on her mind. 

“Is he alright?” 

Hecate hesitates, waving her finger absently and making her mug do slow pirouettes on the table.  “He seems to be.  I cannot sense any greater damage in him than the wound caused by Albus’ death.”  Minerva’s face closes before Hecate’s eyes.  Alastor thumps across the floor upstairs.  Hecate changes tack.  “I can only hope his interrogation on returning to the Death Eaters is no more rigorous than mine.”  The witches’ lips quirk, the gesture minute in each of them, but meaningful nonetheless.  Minerva lets the conversation fall away, not wanting to press Hecate for further details of the increasingly rare time spent with her husband.  Hecate is relieved Minerva leaves her to her own thoughts, which have flown quickly back to spending a morning in her kitchen with her husband.

Hecate longs desperately for a time when breakfast with Severus is a normal part of her life again, not an absolute luxury. 


	11. The Debilitating Impact of Venom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hiccup.” Pippa whispers, laying her small hand on Hecate’s back. 
> 
> “I won’t leave him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, loves. This is set during Deathly Hallows.

Severus does not speak to his wife again in his lifetime.  They are able to exchange messages, sometimes, through members of the Order, but he does not hear her voice again.  He sights her twice, while on assignments.  His inability to touch her causes him an almost physical pain.  Severus awaits, anxiously, the moment he has to live through his worst nightmare, but in the end, it is Hecate left holding her spouse’s body in tears, not Severus. 

She does not rage, rail against the unfairness of it.  She does not scream, although the force of his loss is more than she thinks she should be able to bear.  She holds him silently, her forehead against his, tears falling on his not-yet-cold face.  Pain vibrates through her so violently she doesn’t understand why the molecules that make her up don’t simply fall apart.  Hecate does not move from this position until Minerva McGonagall touches her softly on the shoulder. 

“It won’t bring him back, Hecate.”  Minerva says quietly. 

“I know.”  Hecate replies, not moving from her position on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack, not releasing her grip on her husband’s body.  Minerva cannot tell if Hecate has even realised she is sitting in a drying pool of her husband’s blood.  Sensing she will need backup, Minerva departs the rickety building through its secret tunnel, and returns with Pippa Pentangle a few minutes later. 

Pippa whispers a quiet thank you to Minerva, before turning her attention to her old friend.  She sinks to the floor beside Hecate’s unmoving form.  “Hiccup.”  She whispers, laying her small hand on Hecate’s back. 

“I won’t leave him.”  Hecate knows she’s being irrational.  Hecate knows that even the darkest of magic will not bring him back now.  Knows that even though she is named for a goddess gifted in necromancy, she will not attempt to break the laws of nature in this way.  But she has not touched him for months and, after all the normal rites have been performed, she never will again. 

Pippa hesitates.  She is an empathic person, but she is all too aware that she has never loved anyone as purely as Hecate loves Severus, and she feels ill-equipped to deal with such a loss.  She goes to speak three times, before deciding on the right tack to take with the other witch.

“I won’t make you leave him, Hecate.  But staying here won’t bring him back.” 

“I know that.”  Hecate pushes the words out between her teeth, clinging to the tattered cravat around his neck more firmly.  Pippa touches Hecate’s ebony hair softly and shoots a glance at the former, and likely future Hogwarts Headmistress, hovering mutely in the background.

“We can bring him with us, Hecate.  We could take him back to his rooms.” 

Minerva nods.  “Yes, yes of course, Hecate.” 

For the first time in many long minutes Hecate opens her eyes, looking at Severus’ face, although there’s so little light she can barely see him.  One of her hands is still curved around his cheek.  She lifts her head away from his enough to nod. 

Minerva curses the inability to apparate into the castle.  She pulls her wand out, planning to levitate Severus’ body through the tunnel.  Hecate rises a little more, her hand moving from his cheek to settle on his shoulder.  She feels her wedding bands as she continues to grip at his cravat. 

Hecate doesn’t say another word before she lifts her hand, turns her fingers, and the two of them disappear into thin air. 

It takes Minerva a moment to recognise the transfer spell – which should no more work on the grounds of Hogwarts than apparition.  She sighs softly.  It has been a long and harrowing war. 

When they reach Severus’ old quarters in the dungeon, neither he nor Hecate is anywhere to be found. 

“Where has she - ?”  Minerva begins to query, but Pippa has a flash of realisation. 

Of course.  Of course she has not taken him here, where Hecate almost never saw him.  Of course she has taken him home. 

“May I borrow a broomstick, Minerva?”  Pippa asks. 

 

Severus’ body is lying on the kitchen table when Pippa arrives at the cottage, which is musty and cold after months of being uninhabited.  Hecate is wiping dirt from his face tenderly with a flannel.  She has knitted the wound on his neck where Nagini sunk her teeth into his all too fallible skin and stole the life of the only man Hecate has ever loved. 

Pippa isn’t sure Hecate has noticed her arrival until the taller witch speaks, gaze still fixed upon her husband’s face.  “I never put any stock in Sight.  Predestiny.  People are far too messy to predict.”  Pippa watches her friend’s fingers trail over Severus’ cheek, the thought of a smile touch her lips.  “But I was so certain of him.  Right from - ” Hecate swallows carefully.  “From the very first time we kissed.  Have you ever met someone and felt that you were meant to love them, Pippa?”  Even though she has directly addressed her old friend, she has still not looked up from Severus’ face.  Observing the scene has brought tears to Pippa’s eyes. 

“No.”  She replies shakily. 

“I didn’t believe such emotions were more than fantasy.  And then there he was.”  Hecate is still tracing his cold skin.  “It felt... as if it had been written.” 

Hecate waves her hands softly in the air above him, and the blood and mud caked into his robes and his neck evaporates.  But for his tangled hair, Severus is restored to his normal state.  He may be sleeping.  Pippa wishes for Hecate’s sake that he were. 

“But I suppose that makes sense.”  Hecate continues to muse.  “The only stories with happy endings are the ones that finish half way through.  At a wedding.  At a ball.  At a kiss.  Happiness is ephemeral.  Humans comfort themselves by pretending it can be permanent.”  Hecate takes his left hand in both of hers.  His wedding band, concealed for years by a protective potion, is now visible on his finger.  It poses him no danger now.  Hecate kisses his fingers and leaves her cheek resting against them. 

“But we were very happy.” 

Pippa tries to school herself, to keep her voice steady.  “I know, Hiccup.”

All the things Hecate wants to say, the things other people would be allowed to say in these situations, she cannot.  She knows why she could not accompany him on his mission.  She knows she could not have done any more work with the order to keep him alive.  She knows, and has done since she realised her love for him that he would cause her pain.  She would have believed their love to be death-marked in the way foretold by the stars if she had any faith in such imprecise magic.  But Hecate’s grief-struck mind has nowhere to turn, no alternate reality that seems feasible.  So instead of rage or missed opportunities to save him, it’s memories that overcome her, tiny moments of intimacy taunting her with their absence.  She thinks she can feel his fingers tracing the line of her waist, sees his wry smile dancing behind her eyes.  But the face before her is blank.  Hecate runs her fingers through his hair, and it untangles itself at her wish.  She smoothes it for him, thinking he would like to look orderly at a moment such as this. 

“Will you leave us, Pippa?”  Hecate requests quietly, still rhythmically running her hand through his black locks. 

“If you’re sure.”  She says, aware that she hasn’t seen Hecate’s face since they were at Hogwarts. 

“Yes.”

“Of course.”  Pippa crosses the kitchen.  At last, she sees Hecate’s dark eyes, reddened by tears that are no longer falling.  Hecate’s eyes are back on Severus before Pippa speaks again, but she ploughs on anyway.  “Happiness may be ephemeral, Hiccup.  But love like yours doesn’t die.”  Pippa kisses Hecate’s cheek and squeezes her shoulder, before retrieving her broomstick and departing, leaving Hecate to perform whatever rites she chooses in private. 


	12. The Magical Consequences of Mortal Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say the flowers stopped growing when he died. All the girls say it.

They say the flowers stopped growing when he died.  All the girls say it.  It’s the whisper that flashes around the campus of Cackle’s Academy in the weeks and months after it had happened, once everyone has started rebuilding from the war and discovered their Deputy's secret marriage to the notorious Headmaster from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  The girls aren't sure who heard it first - where the observation had come from.  None of them has ever seen her garden, none of them is brave enough to risk Hecate Hardbroom’s wrath by venturing to the little cottage she shared with her husband – even if they could find a way to locate it. Nevertheless, the rumour floods the school, and in the typical fashion of rumours it is not entirely correct.  

Their Deputy Headmistress had arrived at work on the first day school resumed after the war; fearsome, stoic, unyielding as ever. 

Miss Hardbroom (as she is still known even after the discovery of her nuptials) does not betray herself by showing visible signs of grief when her broomstick deposits her on the grounds of Cackle’s.  She eviscerates the children with little more than a gaze as she always has.  Her spine is as fixedly rigid as it has always been.  But underneath her impeccably fitted brocade robes, Hecate Hardbroom is astonished that her lungs are managing to oxygenate her blood, that her heart has continued to push that blood to the various edges of her body.  Hecate feels nothing at all and absolutely every ounce of pain possible for a person to feel all at once.  When she stops to consider whether she is, indeed, alive and breathing and somehow, outrageously, functioning, magic begins to prickle at her fingers.  Little green and blue sparks dance around her hands.  Hecate, when she stops to think about it, becomes such a lethal combination of pain and rage that, unchecked, she is at risk of literally raising the world to the ground.  One day she is sure she will fail to contain herself. 

But today is the first day of school, and Hecate refuses to allow such a lack of control.  Severus would not tolerate it.  Severus would tell her she was doing a disservice to herself, and to him.  That she always knew this was in their stars – even if neither of them believes in the efficacy of celestial bodies as prophets. 

Severus would tell her that she is strong, and that she must armour herself in that strength now.  He would say it should pose no great challenge for her. 

But Severus is not here anymore.  Severus is somewhere she cannot reach him, no matter how hard she might try.  The thought makes her fingers prickle again, but this time with the desire to touch him, to lay her hands on his cool white flesh, to feel his pulse beat beneath them. 

“Severus.”  She whispers involuntarily. 

“Hecate?”  Ada Cackle asks, only half hearing her Deputy. 

Hecate turns to the older witch, and for the first time since it happened, Ada sees Hecate’s eyes when they are glazed, focused on something at a middle distance that is imperceptible to anyone else.  Hecate comes back to herself, but when she does she surprises Ada.  She lets her in. 

“I loved him, Ada.”  Ada nods, that kindly generous nod that only Ada Cackle is able to offer another human.  Ada’s eyes are soft with anguish for the younger witch.  Hecate shuts hers to prevent them welling with tears.  “I loved him so much.” 

Ada reaches for Hecate’s hand and squeezes it tenderly.  “I know you do, Hecate.”  In spite of herself Hecate appreciates Ada’s use of the present tense.  Because of course she does, of course she still loves him.  Of course she always will. 

And at this moment, as Ada reaches up to touch Hecate gently on the face and a single tear slips from the formidable Deputy’s eye, the lush garden at the unassuming white cottage forty miles from Cakcle’s and infinitely further from Hogwarts turns up its roots and gives up the ghost.  The flowers fall and the leaves shrivel.  The vines release their grip on the walls and curl back into themselves.  The cores of the branches turn from green to the colour of curdled cream.  The death of their garden sounds like the ragged exhalation of a long-held breath, but no one is there to hear it. 

The wind used to rustle the leaves of the ancient oak tree, ruffling them pleasantly.  Now it is sliced into shards by newly bare branches.

When Hecate returns that evening to find their garden barren, she thinks it an appropriate reaction to the gaping hole Severus Snape’s death has left in her world.  Hecate gestures, a furious, expansive wafture of her arms, and a new fence springs from the ground, high and forbidding.  A fence to shut out the wide world. 

When Ada visits one day and gently suggests that perhaps Hecate should move back onto the Cackle’s campus, Hecate nearly incinerates her old friend with her gaze. 

“How could I leave this place, Ada?  How could you expect me to leave the place I lived with him? This house we loved – we chose to spend our lives in.”  Hecate’s voice cracks with emotion as furious tears overtake her.  “How could you even begin to think...?” 

Ada takes Hecate in her arms and lets the slender witch cry against her. 

“I’m sorry, my dear.”  Ada whispers.  She tosses up between pressing Hecate further, and accepting her decision, preserving her place in Hecate’s life.  Of course, she wouldn’t be Ada Cackle if she didn’t do what she thought was right.  “I don’t want to see you trapped in the past, Hecate.” 

Hecate pulls away and dries her eyes firmly, silently chastising herself. 

“I work.  I teach.  I train the next generation of witches.  I shape the future of magic - ”

“- and you don’t let anyone in.”

“I let you in.” 

“ _Hecate_ ,” Ada gently chastises, and Hecate can see where she’s going.  She cuts her off before she can make the point. 

“I didn’t need anyone before him and I have no desire to have anyone after him.”

“But you also didn’t know you wanted Severus until you met him, Hecate.  You must be open to the _possibility_ \- ”

“No.”  Hecate says, in a tone that means she won’t be argued with.  She softens a modicum.  “People like me are allowed one great love in our lives.  I have had mine.” 

“I have never placed much stock in the theory that there is one right person for everyone.”  Ada says wisely.

“Nor have I.  I believe often there is no right match for someone.” 

Ada’s words are soft.  “You believed that was true for you, and were proven quite incorrect, my dear.” 

“I can’t explain to you, Ada, how it felt to be so perfectly... _seen_ by someone.  To have every fault and foible known, and have someone still willing to die for you.  I can’t explain the hole he has left within me.”  Hecate deflates slightly, her shoulders curling in on themselves uncharacteristically.  “Nor can I explain that I would rather leave that hole there than try to fill it.  It... it reminds me that he was real.” 

Contrary to Hecate’s belief, Ada has always understood this.  Hecate has always been a person who holds on to pain like a talisman.  A kind of proof of life.  Even when she made the decision to come here today, Ada doubted that she would convince Hecate to find joy in a world outside her memories.  Ada had never seen Hecate as light and content as when she was with Severus.  She understands why Hecate is resigned to life without him bringing no further happiness.  The younger witch feels she has met her quota.  Ada knows this to be nonsense, but she is also wise enough to know she will not change her young friend’s mind. 

Moving towards Hecate, Ada squeezes her hands fondly.  “Very well, my dear.  I will not raise it again.”  They continue to rely on the portal that was created all those years ago so Hecate can return to Cackle’s quickly when a student has the temerity to knock on the door to her quarters.  Ada worries about Hecate being alone every night when she leaves the Academy.  But for the duration of their friendship, Ada Cackle keeps her promise to Hecate, and never again does she suggest Hecate leave the cottage she shared with Severus.  

 

When Ada departs the house, Hecate stands perfectly still until she’s sure Ada will have left her property.  Hecate barely remembers how she came to be standing in the garden, surrounded by dead things and the wall that has turned her house into a fortress.  Hecate crosses to the oak tree that so captivated her the first time she saw it, lays her right hand against its familiar bark.  To her surprise, she feels the pulse of life still running through it.  She looks up at the branches, shivering naked in the breeze.  She feels as if the tree is grieving for him, too.  Hecate rests her head against the broad trunk as she did the very first day they came here.  Behind her closed eyes, she can imagine Severus watching her, taking her in with his dark analytical eyes.  She remembers the soft smile that touched his lips when she turned from the tree to look at him.  She remembers, with perfect clarity, the moment they silently decided to make their life here.  

“I miss him, too.”  She whispers against the tree.  After standing with her forehead against it for more minutes than she had intended, she presses off the substantial trunk and returns to the empty house she loves so dearly.  She does not notice that a number of the branches have curled themselves into something that curiously resembles a serpent and a panther. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there are some happier times coming in the next chapter. Honest! xx


	13. The Ancient Magic of Oil on Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly the only thing Hecate expects less than someone to brave the act of knocking on her cottage door is to find Minerva McGonagall on her doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the gorgeous reviews, and the kudos, and honestly, just for reading this. You are all excellent x

Possibly the only thing Hecate expects less than someone to brave the act of knocking on her cottage door is to find Minerva McGonagall on her doorstep.  The firm Scottish witch seems to be projecting the softest version of herself for Hecate tonight, and the lady of the house does not take comfort in it.

“Minerva.”  She says, slim and column-like and imposing as she fills her doorway.  “I wasn't expecting you.  I must have missed your owl.”

“No, I didn't send one.”  Minerva replies, unusually awkward.  The years since Severus’ death have made Hecate harder.  Minerva had known her mainly by reputation before she was Severus’ wife.  The few brief encounters the two witches had had confirmed to Minerva that Hecate Hardbroom’s reputation as formidable was an accurate one.  After she and Severus had married, after she’d joined the Order, Minerva had become one of only a handful of people who knew Hecate as a wife.  She had seen the couple in rare, unguarded moments, had seen Hecate in the worst moments of her grief after she’d lost him.  Having seen her in these moments, Minerva knows that the hard crust that has developed around the younger witch is simply an attempt to control her grief.  Minerva understands Hecate better than the younger witch will ever know.  

“May I...?”  Minerva asks, arching an eyebrow and tipping her head slightly to indicate the inside of the house. 

Hecate pulls her chin into her neck while trying to hide a displeased twist of her lips and gestures the elder witch inside. 

“How are you, Hecate?”  Minerva asks, settling herself in Hecate’s well-worn sitting room.  She has only been here once, and the encounter was brief. 

“Fine.  And you?” 

Minerva hesitates.  She and Hecate are not especially close.  Hecate clearly does not want to have an in-depth conversation with her.  She gives a simple and honest answer.  “Busy.”

But Minerva hasn’t thought through the comment.  It sends Hecate straight to Hogwarts, to what she can only imagine her late husband’s workload comprised during his brief year as headmaster of the esteemed institution.  Hecate has visited Hogwarts only twice since the battle. 

“I should come to the point, Hecate.  I’ve brought something.  I understand if you don’t wish to keep it, but I think you might take... some comfort from it.” 

Hecate merely cocks her head to indicate Minerva should continue.  The older witch takes the cue and retrieves her wand.  Minerva draws a large rectangle against the wall, taller than an average man, and a golden frame appears against the bluestones.  The painting that materialises reveals an armchair, which oddly fits well with the decor of Hecate’s sitting room.  There is little else in the picture; a dark rear wall, a bluestone floor.  Hecate isn’t sure what to make of the new addition to her home, but then Minerva lays a hand on the frame and calls softly, “Severus?” 

Hecate watches, fingers beginning to tremble, as her late husband sweeps into the frame, long robes flowing behind him.  Severus’ name tumbles from Hecate’s lips on an unsteady exhale, as it has many times before.  The portrait’s eyes lock onto her; soft, fond - the way they always were.

“Cate.”  He says, and Hecate’s eyes fill with tears.  No one has called her ‘Cate’ in years.  She presses her hand to her ribcage. 

Hecate begins to cross the room, and Minerva wishes at once that she’d explained this in detail before she’d revealed him.

“He won’t be even half of Severus, Hecate.  A portrait never fully captures its subject.”  A single tear has made its way down Hecate’s cheek now.  Minerva knows Hecate isn’t taking in anything she has to say.  Minerva knows she needs to say it anyway - will always chide herself for not saying it first.  “Take whatever comfort you can from him, but never mistake this for Severus.”

Hecate lays a hand on the painted surface, and the version of Severus in the frame matches his fingers to the position of hers.  Hecate is staring at their hands, wishing she could feel skin beneath her palm, rather than the texture of thick but precise oil paint.  Severus’ gaze remains on her. 

“He will be needed at the school at times, but mostly I expect that shall occur while you are at the Academy.”  Hecate nods, pretending she is taking in Minerva’s words, when all she wants is to hear her husband’s voice again. 

“How does it... work?”  Hecate asks.  The version of Severus in the portrait does the best he can not to be offended by his wife referring to him as 'it'. 

“Every Headteacher at Hogwarts has an official portrait painted during their lifetime.  They... they become a knowledge bank, of sorts, for those who come after them.  An almost living history.  The more powerful the witch or wizard, the more accurate they are.  But even Albus’ portrait is...”  Minerva draws a calming breath, trying to avoid wounding herself in the process of her explanation.  “Not half the man he was.

“Part of their personality is formed at the time they’re painted.  But we - or those of us who value their usefulness - spend time teaching them, too.  Imparting memories.  I believe Severus spent quite some time with his.” 

A familiar drawl seems to snap the air in the room like a twig.  Hecate feels her stomach lurch at the sound of it.  She remembers when that voice rang out through these little rooms every day, warming them, somehow.  “Much of it was spent talking of you.” 

“Why now?”  Hecate asks, her eyes moving back to their hands.

Minerva considers her answer.  Does she say that she saw Ada at an Interschool Alliance meeting recently, that Ada is worried?  That she was hoping it wouldn’t come to this?  “We wanted to give you space to grieve properly.” 

Hecate wants to rail, but hearing her pet name again for the first time in years has sapped her energy.  How can anyone ever grieve properly?  As if grief is something one completes in the way they could complete a puzzle – or a painting. 

Hecate looks up at his face, barely finding the strength to meet his dark eyes.  They will have her in floods of tears as soon as Minerva leaves.

“We?”  Hecate asks, finally twisting her head to look at the Headmistress.  They are mere feet apart. 

“The people who care about you.”  Minerva says with a degree of finality.  She knows this conversation will not help either of them.

Hecate drops the subject.  For once, she is not in the mood for a fight. 

“Perhaps,” Severus’ portrait inserts himself into the conversation, “you might let me explain the situation myself, Minerva?”  His hand is still resting on the surface of his portrait; without realising it, Hecate has left her palm against his.

Minerva gives him the hardest stare she is able, telling him silently that he must represent the situation accurately.  Telling him not to give her false hope.  “Very well.  Hecate, I shall call in on you in a few weeks.”  She leaves no room for argument, and lets herself out of the cottage in a sweep of forest green robes. 

“Severus...”  She studies his painted face, the lines, the ghosts that haunt his eyes, all so accurately portrayed there. 

“My love.”  He rumbles, lifting his hand as if to touch her cheek, but realising half way through the action that, of course, he cannot reach her.

“Do you...  How much do you know, about us...?”  She asks, almost afraid of the answer.  She wants him to know everything, every tiny detail.  She is afraid to have that much knowledge back in her home.  She’s afraid she may never leave this house again if he does.

“I know that the number of glasses of firewhiskey required to make you dance without complaint is three.  I know there is no person I trust to brew a potion more than you.  I know Pippa Pentangle resents my calling you ‘Cate’ - as well as our entire relationship.  I know the precise point on your left inner thigh that pleases you most.  Which is, ironic, given the present situation.”  Hecate laughs tearfully.  He is everything she has missed.  Dry and uncompromising and razor sharp.  “And I know that I have spent no less than three hours per day staring at this,” Severus draws a fob watch out of his waistcoat pocket.  It is black and intricate, a masculine twin to hers; she has never seen it before.  He opens the watch with the push of a button, the face is black with glowing Slytherin green numerals, and the inside of the cover conceals a photograph of Hecate, smiling softly at him on their wedding day, her hair trailing over her shoulders. 

Flesh and blood Hecate releases a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. 

“When did he...?”

“When I left the house.”  His insistent use of the first person is both a comfort and a trap.  She is telling herself not to place too much stock in this facsimile of her husband, but everything about him feels like Severus, and her resolve is slipping. 

“I needed something of you to keep close to me.  The photograph disappears when looked upon by an enemy.”  He explains, eyes more on the picture of her than the real woman before him.  He glances up at her.  At the same moment Hecate says “How crafty of you Severus,” and the man portrayed before her similarly states “A crafty little piece of magic.”  They share a smile.  ‘Crafty’ is a word he took from her repertoire. 

Hecate’s throat constricts, and she wishes with everything in her that she could close her hand around his robes.  Instead her hand closes in the air without her wishing it to.  “I have missed you - s _o much._ ”  She snatches air into her lungs, and her anger flares.  “Why has Minerva kept you from me for all these - ”

“I asked her to.”  Severus interrupts her.  Hecate gawps at him, feeling rather like he has robbed her of the power of speech.  “I had hoped you might... move on.” 

If Hecate had felt her anger rising before, it blazes within her now.  She can’t remember a time he has wounded her more deeply.  Her large, dark eyes, still filled with tears from moments before, bore into his painted ones.  “As you would have, my love?” 

He recognises the question for the accusation it is.  How could he expect something of her he himself has never accomplished?  Even Severus’ portrait form is sophisticated enough to recognise the implicit comparison in his words.  It took him more than six years to let himself love someone other than Lily, and yet he expected her to manage it in three. 

“That was... insensitive of me.” 

“Yes.”  Her glare does not soften.  She breathes as evenly as she can.  “Should I have expected the same of you, if our positions were reversed?” 

They consider each other at length.  In portrait form, Severus ponders how to make her understand, how to express eloquently the depth of feeling the man he represents had for her.  He is less able to articulate it than his long-gone flesh-and-blood counterpart.  But in the end, that’s the answer.

“A Headteacher’s portrait is intended for use by their successors.  A method of guiding decisions and imparting historical knowledge.  I did not spend the bulk of my time detailing my potions discoveries, the secrets I have acquired about my house and its founder, or about the inner workings of Hogwarts.  I spent less time than I should have relaying the intimate details of the Dark Lord and his followers.  I spoke, primarily, of you.”  Hecate’s eyes are, once again, prickling with tears.  By this point she is so desperate to touch him she thinks her skeleton might actually force itself out of her skin.

“Tell me.”  She breathes.  And he does.  They talk long into the night, Hecate drawing up one of the well-worn leather armchairs to be opposite the one in his portrait.  He tells her things about herself that only Severus Snape knows, and Hecate mentally concedes that, while this is not her husband, she will never have a more intimate relationship with a person than she has with this painting. 

Hecate is assaulted with the memory of being able to touch him, inhale him, nuzzle into his neck and fall asleep with his smooth chest beneath her bare breasts. 

At nearly three in the morning, Hecate brings herself to ask a question she’s been trying to avoid.  “Can you... feel?” 

Severus gives her a textbook answer, as she hoped he would.  “A portrait does have an emotional range, and emotional responses, yes.  The strength of a portrait’s emotional response is also connected to the strength of a subject’s emotions.”  Hecate is barely breathing.  “Albus Dumbledore’s portrait continues to love Harry Potter like a son.” 

“Frustration?  Irritation?  Fear?  Happiness?” 

“I fear you have not spent enough time in Hogwarts, my love.”  Severus smiles wryly at her.  He would be wiser not to press her today, though; there is a very real chance she will rail at him in her struggle to comprehend the situation.  He remembers, in the strange way a subject imprints a sensation in its portrait’s mind which the pictographic version can never experience, the feeling of taking her hands within his.  He wishes he could offer her the same comfort as his original version would have. 

“Portraits have a full emotional range, although, as I have said, the complexity of their reactions is dependent on their subject.  In my time at Hogwarts, I have witnessed portraits grieving, panicking, rejoicing...”  It takes her a moment to realise these are Severus’ observations, not his portrait’s.  She had forgotten his stories of the portraits at Hogwarts running from perceived dangers with shrieks of alarm, drinking themselves into oblivion and singing joyously, growling grumpily at people who interrupted their slumber. 

“I love you, Hecate.  As much as a portrait can.  But I cannot love you the way I -” The man in the portrait catches himself.  “The way he did.”  She does not visibly react to his words.  He expected nothing less of her.  “The other reason Minerva and I delayed this introduction was my belief that, while I cannot love you in the same, complete way, you might love me as if I were really him.  That seemed... unfair to you.”

If Hecate were a cat, at this moment all her hair would have stood on end while her spine curled.  Without this ability, Hecate’s eyes blaze at him.  “Unfair?  Losing him was unfair to me!  Finding him so late was unfair to me!  And, in spite of your purest intentions, being denied this version of you for years while I was grieving was also _deeply_ unfair to me.”  Severus looks chastened.  “I did not take kindly to your protection while you were here, Severus.  I need it even less now you are gone.” 

“My apologies.”  He says, slowly but sincerely.  Hecate looks away from him, across the dimly lit lounge room.  The silence holds three beats longer than it needs to. 

“I would give anything in my power to touch you again.”  Hecate looks towards her husband’s voice.  She had been thinking these words so fervently that for a moment, she isn’t sure which of them has spoken. 

“As would I.”  She says sincerely.  She lifts her hand to rest against the canvas again, and Severus matches it.  Hecate is glad of the little intimacy, even if it is not the one she craves.   

 

It takes time, but they soon fall into a rhythm, the Deputy and her portrait husband.  They share the tales of their day as they used to, what’s occurred when he returns to his frame at Hogwarts and the trials and tribulations at Cackle’s during hers.  They return home in the evenings and debrief their petty annoyances, although Severus more often brings observations of the happenings around him, no longer being an active participant in the day to day running of the school.  Before she leaves in the morning he steps close to his frame, presses his palms to the invisible barrier between them, and Hecate aligns hers to them.  After enough time, Hecate imagines she can still feel his skin against hers again. 

Hecate begins a project before she leaves Cackle’s of an evening, spending half an hour or so each day on her little endeavour.  Severus notes her absence, her delayed return to their cottage, but he does not remark on it.  He suspects, with an ache he knows he has no right to, that perhaps there is a new wizard at Cackle’s who has captured his wife’s attention.  He waits for the moment it becomes clear he must give her the space to live her life without him, plans to occupy his Hogwarts frame permanently.  He knows that even in this simplified form, a prolonged absence from her will wound him deeply, but he loves her enough to want something for her that is more real than what he can offer her. 

But it is only half an hour a day, and she never seems to want his absence, always seems equally pleased to see him when she returns to the cottage as he is to see her. 

Severus relaxes into her more extended absences somewhat, and they continue for years.  The only time he raises it is one evening while he watches her sipping at an aperitif glass of honeyfly wine.  “I would understand, Cate.  If you found someone new.” 

She looks up at him, her neat bun, her face now gently lined with all the cares and grief he has inflicted upon her.  He half expects her to rail at him, but she surprises him by smiling patiently. 

“It has only ever been you, my love.  And it will only ever be you.” 

He has learnt, by now, not to argue with her.  He does not raise the issue again, accepting that she will always come home to him. 


	14. The Undervalued Power of Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate Hardbroom leaves very strict instructions for the occasion of her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go after this one, my loves. Thank you so much as always for coming on the journey with me and loving the snarky married potioneers as much as I do. xx

Hecate Hardbroom leaves very strict instructions for the occasion of her death.  Their cottage is to remain unsold, with a suitable custodian to care for it.  The portrait of Severus is to remain within its walls.  Something new is to be delivered there at an appropriate time. 

In the way a portrait can, Severus grieves for the loss of his wife.  He misses her presence like he would miss a limb - perhaps all his limbs.  He misses her wry jibes and the wickedness of her quirked lips.  He misses the sway of her body as she moves about the cottage, misses the extension of her arm as she lifts her hand to press against his, even though he can’t feel it.  He misses the sound of her voice, how soft it becomes when she tells him that she loves him.  Severus is also cursed with a thorough understanding of how his living counterpart had felt when she touched him.  Severus muses on the stories he was told of their wedding day.  He wishes he had asked Hecate to tell him the story, too, so he had more than his original’s perspective on it. 

 

One day, not long after Hecate’s death, someone lets themself through the cottage’s many protective spells as if it were as simple as turning a key in a lock.

Severus is staring intently at the doorway to their little lounge room.  His hand is on his wand out of some transferred habit - he has no capacity to do magic anymore. 

Rather than a Death Eater, or some other malevolent force, Severus is greeted with a blonde woman in her mid forties wearing a deep purple cloak.  She lifts her hand to her forehead and bows a little, in the custom of his wife’s discipline of magic. 

“Well met, Professor Snape.” 

“Well met...”  Severus replies with a note of suspicion. 

“I’m Esmerelda Hallow - ”

Severus cuts her off, and relaxes somewhat.  “Ah.  My wife’s favourite student.” 

The blonde woman before him hesitates, thrown by his comment.  Her mouth fights itself, caught between the solemnity of the meeting and the force of emotion welling within her at the compliment.

“W-was I really HB’s favourite?”  Esme stammers, blue eyes wide and earnest.  Severus takes in the greatest witch to pass through Cackle’s in his wife’s time. 

“I never heard her speak so highly of a student.” 

Esme glances down, lifts her hand and subtly presses a finger underneath her right eye, catching a tear before it streaks its way down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry.  You must miss her so much more than I do.  But I can’t believe she’s gone.” 

“I understand.”  Severus says, while silently envying the woman before him.  She must have touched his wife much more recently than he has. 

“Did you... see Hecate recently?” 

“I’ve been seeing her quite regularly, actually.  Before she... died, we tried to meet each month.  It was a little harder, once she became Headmistress - she was so busy.  But she always made time for me.  She talked about you all the time.” 

Severus had known they’d kept up their meetings, although she’d never told him exactly what they discussed, and he can’t recall how long ago the most recent was.  He was hoping, foolishly, for some small anecdote about his wife’s last few days to which he hadn’t been privy. 

“I presume she sent you to check on me?”  This is just a gambit to move proceedings along; he knows by now that Hecate must have something planned. 

“Not exactly.  She asked me to be custodian of the cottage, after she…  And she sent me to deliver something for her.” 

Severus’ eyebrow quirks in anticipation, and Esme takes this as her cue.  She turns to the wall beside Severus’ portrait, mutters an incantation intently beneath her breath, and throws the contents of a small phial against the stone.  Where the vivid purple potion has landed, a canvas begins to spread.  Within moments, there is a twin to his frame, and a woman contained within it in an expansive bedchamber. 

Hecate steps over the threshold between their frames, and Severus’ mind is reeling.  For the first time in decades his wife stands before him, close enough to touch - to _really_ touch, looking not much older than when he first arrived in this form. 

“Good evening, Professor Snape.”  She smiles wryly.  Severus’ fingers are trembling. 

“Cate” he whispers, too afraid to touch her in case this is some hideous trick.  His mind is scrambling to remember whether portraits can go mad.

Hecate turns away from her husband and studies her favourite former student.  “Thank you, Esmerelda.”  The smile on her lips is soft, fond.  She has every expectation that when the world moves on a little more, Esme will advance from her position on Magic Council and become the first Great Witch. 

“It was my pleasure, HB.” 

“I hope you will continue your visits.”  Hecate says levelly. 

“Of course.  I’ll leave you two to catch up.  It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor Snape.” 

“And you, Miss Hallow.” 

As Esme exits, the couple’s gaze locks once again.  Hecate thinks she has never seen her husband so still. 

“Severus...”  She whispers tentatively, her large dark eyes trying to read the set of his face.  Severus is trying not to be confused by the lack of silver hair, the reduction of lines on her face.  They are slightly more than arms’ length from each other, and Hecate regrets stopping this far from him.  She sees his fingers twitch, as if he’s considering the same thing, thinking of reaching for her.  He has not said a word to her since her name. 

“My love” she breathes, suddenly worried that she’s made a large tactical error.  Perhaps she should have let him go, let him live out his days as a normal Headmaster’s portrait should. 

In less than the blink of an eye, Severus has swept his wife into his arms, and Hecate finally relaxes, winding her arms around his neck and burying her face against his collar.  Hecate’s portrait has spent the decades since she was painted hearing her human counterpart describe the all-encompassing torture of not touching her husband.  So at this moment, the portrait feels she’s been relieved of the decades of frustration and heartache her original endured.  Hecate threads her fingers into her husband’s hair and presses herself to him more firmly. 

“I have had to live so long without being able to hold you.”  Severus says softly.

“As have I.  As did she.”  He understands her implication perfectly; the pain of absence for a human is significantly greater than for a portrait. 

He pulls back from her, studies her face, her full red lips and her dark brown eyes, tries to guess at her age.  “When did she - ?”

“Not long after you arrived.”  She adjusts her hands, spreading them over his chest.  “You gave her the idea.  She searched out the artist who painted you.  She was happy with the results.” 

“I’m surprised she didn’t keep you from me for longer.”

“After you left her alone for years, she did consider it.”  Hecate’s lips quirk wickedly, and Severus can’t believe his luck, can’t believe that he has been gifted a future with the woman he loves.  As if he’s moving through treacle, Severus lifts his hand to touch her cheek, his fingertips a ghost on her skin.  His thumb makes a journey over her lips with the careful attention to detail of a cartographer. 

Her eyes are soft, taking him in eagerly.  He has met this gaze so many times.  She still seems a little trepidatious, as if she’s afraid he’ll find her lacking.  He understands the sentiment, he felt much the same when he was first introduced to his flesh and blood wife, to the woman who had known and loved every virtue and flaw in the better version of him. 

He lowers his head and nuzzles softly against her face, trying to convey that she is more of the woman he loved than he ever expected to see again, that he will love her completely, even if she is not a complete copy of his wife.  After all, Hecate loved him completely even though he could never be all of his original. 

“She spent the end of each day telling me everything I’d need to know.  It never felt like enough.” 

A shadow of a smile passes over his lips.  The unexplained thirty minutes at the end of the school day were for his benefit.  At long last, Severus drops his lips to hers and kisses her.  One of Hecate’s hands tangles in the lengths of his black hair, making sure he can’t pull away from her.  In his decades of painted life, Severus’ portrait has never felt the sensation of another body pressed against his.  It’s a heady discovery, and he pins her against him as firmly as he can.  Severus isn’t sure precisely how far the boundaries of a portrait’s physical abilities stretch, but he is willing to push them.  His human form had attempted to describe the sensation of being inside her.  He had used words like ‘complete’, and ‘sacred’.  He had said making love to her was like coming home and discovering a new realm all at once.  He’d said he never believed a treasure as rare as Hecate Hardbroom could exist, and no matter how many times he’d laid his hands upon the perfect planes of her body, he could never believe his luck. 

While Severus cannot with any certainty say that he experiences these things in the same way as his long-lost flesh and blood counterpart, he thinks his predecessor’s descriptions are an eloquent summation of the first night he spends with her. 

As they lie in the expansive bed in her frame, Severus, at last, allows himself to utter the words, “I love you,” against his wife’s temple.

A silence stretches between them, the kind in which he was always able to hear her human predecessor thinking. 

She is lying against his chest, half on top of him.  Her dark hair is splayed across her slim back, tendrils of it tickling Severus’ flesh.  Severus’ nose is buried against her dark tresses.  This is they way their predecessors most often slept, but they have not taken the position because they have been taught to.  Even to their portraits, the position feels right.  Physically they fit together as well as they always have. 

“She said you would.”  Hecate says quietly against his collar bone.  He knows her original form well enough to sense she will finish the thought without his intervention. 

“She said you would love me because she loved you - ”

“-Even though I was not all she remembered him being.”

She presses her lips to his collar bone now, the softness of them lingering against his skin, before she utters “Yes.” 

Hecate’s painted form mulls over the way Hecate described being in his arms, against his chest.  How she had never craved physical contact with another person until she knew him.  Her original had described the prickle of her fingers when she thought about touching him, and how difficult it was to adjust to the reality that she could no longer satisfy the urge after his death. 

Hecate settles back against his chest, pressing her lips reverently to his skin.  She has been promised him for so many years, conditioned so carefully by her original to love him, to want nothing beyond him, that the reality of having him is rather overwhelming. 

As if sensing this from her, Severus runs his hands softly over her hair, before winding his arms around her more tightly.  This will take adjustment, but for the first time since he lost her, Severus believes things might be alright.


	15. The Unlikely Gift of Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life they lead within their little cottage is richer than either of their past selves could have expected when commissioning their portraits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. We're here. I can't believe we're actually at the end. 
> 
> Thank you all so, so, SO much for sticking with me through thirty something thousand words of this mad crossover that I couldn't get out of my head. I love you all for the reviews and the bookmarks and the kudos. Thank you for being as invested in these two as I am. I wasn't sure anyone would want to read it, and I'm so touched that you did. 
> 
> I have some more waiting to be posted and I hope you enjoy them as much as this. 
> 
> Much love, Tricki xx

Life, in its own odd way, goes on.  Most days, Severus returns to his frame at Hogwarts and Hecate, having introduced the idea of Headteacher portraits to Cackle’s, generally does the same. 

The routine the portrait couple shares is much the same as the one their human counterparts did many years ago, although without the tension of hiding their relationship and fighting a wizarding war.  They muse over the trials and tribulations of life at a magical school, the idle gossip of their respective parts of the wizarding world.  Drusilla Paddock has been put in Azkaban for using the Imperius curse to make a man marry her.  Mildred Hubble has been awarded an Order of Merlin, much to Hecate’s disgust.  The world moves on around them; they remain fixed points in the centre of it, an anchor to a different time. 

Esme continues to visit Hecate once a month, even after she has been appointed Britain’s first ever Great Witch.  She can never decide whether the portrait form of HB was created as a more mellow iteration of her former self, or whether living with the man she loves with no threat of war has simply allowed the painted woman to relax more than her original could. 

If Severus is present when Esme arrives for her regular visit to his wife and quick whip-around of the property, he has taken to spending a few minutes speaking with her.  Severus has grown rather fond of Her Greatness.  Esme takes note, each time she sees him, that he takes his leave reluctantly, always touches his wife’s arm softly as he vacates the frame.  Esme appreciates him taking such good care of her favourite teacher, her mentor.  She wishes he had had more time to do it while he and HB were alive.

Both halves of the magical couple use their portraiture well.  Severus uses his time to write textbooks, his first an update to Libatius Borage’s entirely substandard volume _Advanced Potion Making_.  His living counterpart had often complained about the inferiority of the material used to teach Hogwarts students, so it seems a natural progression that at some point Severus would conscript a junior editor at Sermo Publications to transcribe his carefully cultivated methods.  Sometimes he demands the young wizard stay until Hecate returns from Cackle’s to test his material, and often gain her consent to him appropriating some of her tricks.  She is a critical audience, exactly as he needs her to be.  When her lip ticks with approval at a recipe or an observation, he knows he has produced something truly worthwhile.  _The Exact Art of Potion-Making_ is adopted as the core textbook for N.E.W.T. level potion students immediately upon its publication, and Severus quickly follows it with _Strategic Approaches to Defensive Magic_ , which is also quickly embraced by magical schools around the world.  Severus’ textbooks are translated into dozens of languages, and there is scarcely a young witch or wizard the world over who does not know his name, even generations after the war is forgotten.  Hecate earns a contributing author credit in his potions book; he doubts it would be half as nuanced without her.  Both of his works are inscribed in with the dedication _For my wife._  

Hecate, having spent her life teaching, feels the need to focus on her own academic pursuits.  She finally has the time and headspace to complete her research on complex venoms and their antidotes, producing a thesis on the subject and a significantly more practical antidote equation to the one proposed by Borage some seventy years ago. 

Esmerelda reads the finished product, tests the equation with multiple different unknown venoms, to a deadline.  Hecate is extremely grateful that the Great Witch has made time for her endeavour; there is no one else living Hecate trusts to be honest with her. 

“I think it works, HB.”  Esme says, standing back from the fourth cauldron of antidote she’s had three minutes to brew.  Hecate is always amused by Esme’s dedication to calling her by the nickname that floated around the halls of Cackle’s.  Endeared, too. 

Esme looks up from the notepad she’s been scribbling her workings upon, meets her unintentional mentor’s gaze.  “There’s nothing we’ve thrown at it that hasn’t easily come out in the time limit.” 

“Thank you, Esmerelda.” 

Esme studies the soft, fond smile that Hecate sometimes offered her teenage self, the one she so rarely bestowed on students.  The smile that was more valuable than 100% on an assignment – and Esme did get her share of those.  “You know it’s a pleasure.”  Esme gathers up the heavy sheets of parchment that comprise Hecate’s thesis, and says “Shall I make those edits and then submit it to the journal?” 

“That would be deeply appreciated.”  Esme flashes Hecate the purely kind smile for which she is so well known.  Hecate thinks about the conscientious eleven-year-old who arrived at Cackle’s; she had lacked Ethel’s ego, possessed a discipline well beyond her years.  She had surprised Hecate numerous times over the years with insights and skill well beyond her years, but Hecate had always known to expect great things from the eldest Hallow. 

Esme glances up from the papers now, and catches sight of Severus in the distant background of the portrait.  She nods to him, says “Afternoon, Professor Snape.”  Hecate has not noticed him ghost into the frame behind her while Esme was working through the equation. 

“Good afternoon, Your Greatness.”  Severus says, his lips almost quirking into a smile.  Esme grins back at him.  She does not mind him teasing her – and she is perceptive enough to notice that he is. 

“I trust your day has been productive?”  He queries in his idiosyncratic drawl.  It used to terrify his students, but Esme has spent too long in his house and his company to be intimidated by him at this point. 

“Very.  I think HB’s cracked the antidote formula.”  Even after all this time, even as the first Great Witch, even though Hecate practically raised her, Esme can’t bring herself to call her former teacher by her first name.  “I’m sure you’re not surprised.”  The blonde woman smiles. 

“No.  I determined within ten minutes of meeting Hecate that she is the most gifted potion master of our time.” 

“Next, only, to yourself, darling.”  Hecate quips.  There is a lack of force behind her remark, a dullness to her ordinarily razor-sharp wit.  He does not remark upon it in front of Esme, but he scrutinises her more carefully.  She is uncharacteristically disengaged from him, barely meeting his gaze, failing to orientate her body towards his as she normally would. 

“Superior, in fact.”  He stares at the side of her head so intently that she can’t help but turn to meet his gaze, albeit momentarily.  She reads the truth of his words in his dark eyes, but competitive spirit is not the force driving Hecate today, so she does not swell with the compliment. 

“I’m not foolish enough to get in the middle of the two of you, but I certainly never met anyone better at brewing a potion than HB.” 

Severus smiles faintly at Esme providing him with backup. 

“I’ll leave you two to it.  I’ll be back next Thursday with any comments from the Journal.” 

“Thank you, Esmerelda.”  Severus can hear the tender smile in his wife's voice, although he can’t see it.  He can hear the weariness, too. 

“Lovely to see you as always, Severus.” 

They share a soft smile.  “And you, Esme.” 

After Esme lets herself out of the cottage Hecate continues to gaze out into the room, fussing with the cuff of her dress. 

“You seem dissatisfied with your discovery, my love.”  Severus remarks.  Hecate still does not look at him; she can picture him with such perfect clarity she feels no need to do so. 

“It would have saved you.”  She says softly. 

Severus does not say that this assertion is predicated on her finding him before he had died, or Harry Potter remembering the equation, or Hermione Granger miraculously having the required ingredients to hand, however simple they may be in her new formulation.  He does not say this because, in the end, it makes no difference.  Instead he says, “And we would be here anyway.” 

“After many more years of being human together.”  She is sharp where he has been gentle.  He does not begrudge her the tone.  Her human form was sentenced to many years without him; he understands the damage that has done to her, the lingering hostility she feels towards the world.  He is accustomed to waiting for her flashes of anger to pass. 

When she turns to meet his gaze, she softens.  “I’m sorry, Severus.”  She holds her hand out towards him, the only peace offering he ever desires.  “We may only be paint and memory, but I love you.  And so did she.”  Severus brings her fingers to his lips and kisses them pointedly. 

“I know.” 

“I am deeply grateful we have the chance to have an always, even if it isn’t the one she imagined.”  Severus pulls her into his arms, his cloak encompassing her comfortingly as he embraces her.  He kisses the side of her head, then voices a sentiment she has been pondering for the past minutes.

“You are not wrong to wish they had had one, too.” 

That night, Hecate wound safely in Severus’ arms, her back to his chest, she murmurs “I have always thought…”  She hesitates, and Severus nuzzles softly against the back of her neck to prompt her continuance.  “If we had had a child, she would be like Esmerelda.” 

Severus threads his fingers through hers, draws her more tightly to his chest.  His reply is muffled by her shoulder “As have I.”  And this is how they work together, even as paint and memory. 

 

Their relationship having long been exposed in a tell-all book about the Second Wizarding War, when one half of the couple is finding their own school dull, they will sometimes make the trip to visit their spouse.  Some days they swap places, Severus taking the opportunity to reveal himself to the newest Headmistress of Cackle’s unexpectedly.  Sybil Hallow has never quite gotten used to his surprise appearances.  She frequently interrupts Clarice Twigg at Magic Council to complain about the situation, no matter how viciously Clarice glares at her. 

When Hecate visits Severus at Hogwarts she takes the opportunity to appear here and there to terrify the current batch of students.  While Hecate is the first headteacher portrait at Cackle’s, Severus is one of many, and many more animated portraits that form the scenery of Hogwarts.  Navigating Cackle’s is significantly easier for Severus than Hogwarts is for Hecate.  The key difficulty is that Giffard Abbott has taken rather a shine to her.  When he spots her on a tour through the various frames in the castle, without fail he makes an unwanted beeline for her.  Today she has the misfortune of meeting him in his own natural habitat, the Headteacher’s office.

“Hecate Hardbroom!  Gracing us with your beautiful face once again, I see?” 

“I believe my vicious wit prompted Severus’ proposal, rather than any physical characteristic.”  She replies one clear winter Wednesday.  She always makes great pains to mention Severus in her responses to Giffard, although it doesn’t seem to deter him.  From competitive spirit alone, today Ambrose Swott joins in the conversation. 

“Ah, quite right, quite right.  He’s a wise chap, our Severus.  With damn good taste in women.”  Hecate does not conceal the roll of her eyes. 

“Do you know where I might find my husband?”  She puts a slight emphasis on the word, evidently too subtle for the ancient painted men.  She makes to move off before their answer, knowing there are only two other places she ever finds him with any regularity, and she visited one of them before she came to the Headteacher’s office.  Giffard makes a tactical move to block her path from the frame.  Hecate glares at him, unchecked. 

“Come on Giffard, old chap.  Let the lady past.  Snape’ll get tetchy if you monopolise his woman.” 

Hecate appreciates the intention of his intervention, but she cannot restrain herself from criticising his execution.  “Ambrose.  While I love my husband very much, he is not my owner.  This tedious display of masculinity is significantly less charming than either of you thinks it to be.  If you’ll excuse me.”  Stunned, fragile male pride wounded, Giffard steps aside and gestures her on.

As she strides off through the fastest path to the potions room, she hears Ambrose chuckle “She’s a fiery one, Snape’s missus.”  Hecate longs for the days she could have turned him into a mollusc. 

The corridors flood with students as she makes her way down through the castle.  Lunch time is beginning.  By the time she reaches the potions room, it is empty. 

“I couldn’t find you in the Dark Arts room.”  Hecate notes as she crosses into the frame he is presently occupying. 

“Edward Crowe is a pathetic excuse for a Professor.  I could not watch him reading my textbook aloud any longer.”  Hecate smiles at her husband, seems to float over to him before pressing her lips soundly against his. 

His hands remain around her hips as he pulls back from her. 

“I take it Cackle’s lacked some of its usual entertainment value?” 

“Two days before term ends the practical benefit of a former Headteacher observing the school’s goings on diminishes significantly.”  Severus nods.  Their schools’ terms aren’t aligned.  There are two more weeks of classes at Hogwarts.  He wonders if she will join him here each day during the Academy’s holidays.  She sometimes has in the past.  He particularly enjoys the moments she perches on the arm oh his usual chair in the Headmaster’s office, shoulders square, gaze appealingly challenging, poised as if to strike.  He likes running his fingers down her spine and watching her fight against the impulse to twitch with pleasure.  He often mulls over the luxury he has, touching her, caressing her in public.  His human form spoke often of his resentment over the small actions he was unable to perform with her.  Walking down the street with her arm through his.  Eating a meal together in a restaurant after the early days, before the danger of their relationship became apparent.  Neither he nor his original form have ever been wont to engage in grand public displays of affection, but such acts being forbidden made Severus rather crave them.  And now, with the benefit of their post-war exposure, Severus’ portrait form takes his opportunities.  He takes one now by keeping his hands firmly curved around her hips, touching his lips to hers with unnecessary regularity.  While her living self would have been uncomfortable with the display, her portrait form has grown accustomed to his need to touch her.  She never objects now, although she prefers to keep her own moments of demonstrative affection contained to their cottage. 

 

To the outside world, there is no life in the cottage.  Esme’s visits are timed to avoid observation, and there are no other guests.  Long after their deaths, children from the nearby villages exchange animated stories about the witch who lived in the white cottage, the one with no garden but a dead tree whose branches have curled themselves into something that curiously resembles a serpent and a panther.  Sometimes, a student from Cackle’s will attempt to enter the cottage on a Hallow’s Eve dare.  The protective spells on the house send them flying away from the gate, generally with a scream.  At those moments, generally when Hecate and Severus are in bed, Hecate draped over his chest the way her predecessor would, they will look up at each other wearily. 

“Another one of yours, I presume?”  Severus always asks.

“There is insufficient evidence to support your conclusion, my love.”  Is her standard drawled reply, followed by a kiss to the dip below his collar bone. 

They are comfortable in their routine, and despite the appearance of desertion, the life they lead within their little cottage is richer than either of their past selves could have expected when commissioning their portraits.  Severus knows that his existence was a natural consequence of the tradition and protocols of the school he once oversaw, but he is grateful, every single day, that the woman who loved him once upon a time in skin and bone created a version of herself for him to love after she was gone.  Severus is happy to have the chance to live a quiet, domestic life with her after all these years.  While ‘normal’ is hardly the term for their arrangement, the life they share is something adjacent to normal; it is certainly the closest thing to normal Severus Snape has ever known.  And he is comforted that he will spend an eternity in oil and canvas with the woman he loves. 


End file.
